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WINDOWS FACING WEST 



WINDOWS FACING WEST 


BY 

VIRGINIA MacFADYEN 

u 


ALBERT & CHARLES BONI 

NEW YORK 1924 


By 


Copyright, 1924, 
ALBERT & CHARLES BONI 




Printed in the United States of America by 

J. J. LITTLE AND IVES COMPANY, NEW YORK 

_ JAN 10 *25 •' \ 

©C1A815653-, 

*VU" V 



To My Mother 

VIRGINIA RINALDI MacFADYEN 




WINDOWS FACING WEST 




WHY I WRITE 


I 

My living room faces the west. 

From its deep, recessed windows are visible the broad 
band of the Hudson and a strip of Jersey shore beyond. 
Here on a window seat cushioned in apple green velvet I 
spend nearly all of my time. With the hangings pulled 
tight together hiding the room behind, I can dream for 
hours gazing out at the river and the line of hills, never 
quite the same. 

The Drive is four stories below. Its noises, when they 
reach my retreat, come as a sort of muffled chorus to the 
serene drama of sky and earth. Nor do I see people from 
my windows except at a great distance which causes them 
to seem less important than when one meets them face to 
face. Unless I lean out of my windows and look down 
(which I never would do), all that I see of the street is a 
row of tree tops—bare or budding or in full leaf. 

So it has been for two years. 

Sometimes I read—and I read things which one might 
not guess—but most often, as I have said, I lie gazing 
towards the west and wondering about the things which 
I see until the inevitable interruption comes. 

Wong is very silent but I think I should hear him if 
he were even more silent. It is one of the things he does 
not understand about me. 

Before he has well entered the room, I am out of the 
9 


10 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


alcove, self-possessed, invulnerable—ready for my lunch¬ 
eon or my tea or my dinner. And more than once I have 
caught a look of involuntary admiration in his shoe button 
eyes when I have appeared suddenly. It has become a 
game between us—his part to enter ever more noiselessly 
and summon me; mine, to appear without being summoned. 

He is clever but I am more clever because my need is 
greater. 

I am sure Wong must wonder what I do behind the 
apple green curtains. 

He would wonder more, if he could see me—supine, 
relaxed, at peace. But that must never happen. I would 
rather he saw me in my bath. So I am careful to pull 
the curtains quite together and then trust to the inexplic¬ 
able sixth sense which warns me of his approach. 

Sometimes my routine suffers a more serious break-into. 
That is when the man who pays for my apartment comes. 

He is not my husband nor my father nor my brother. 

Having learned from sad experience that if you refuse 
to call a spade a spade, others are likely to call it some¬ 
thing much worse, I have no hesitation in saying that I 
am his mistress. I admit the fact as I would admit having 
red hair. One might as well . . . and, then, why not? 

I am fond of him—mildly. If I say that my love is not 
a wild rapture, I feel sure that I am different from women 
who are legally married only by virtue of being more 
honest than most. 

He is very rich; he is in love with me; and he is gener¬ 
ous. Many people have lived happily together with fewer 
assets. 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


11 


But when he comes, I must undergo a metamorphosis. 
He comes for relaxation, pleasure, gaiety. These it is 
my part of the compact to supply. As I employ my soli¬ 
tude to discovering my mind, my relation to the de¬ 
tached panorama of the world as seen from my windows, 
my identity, as it were; so in company I am constantly 
on guard lest I reveal that I have a mind, even such a 
groping, bungling machine as I can boast. 

Strange, that he who has such small part in my real life 
should have been the means of providing it. Strange, 
that “living in sin” I should begin to find my soul in my 
meditations at the windows when I doubt that as a vir¬ 
tuous stenographer I should ever have found time or in¬ 
clination to inquire what I am and whither going. . . . 

But that is anarchy. 

Living as I do suspended rootless in mid-air, it is inevit¬ 
able that I should come to lose sight of my own reality. 
My life has become more and more a remote tower room 
wherein 1 sit without those contacts which others have 
and by which they become real to themselves. 

Partly to remedy this lack (which I do not greatly 
regret, after all), partly, because I have no one to whom 
I can express my thoughts, I have decided to set down as 
honestly as one ever can what I am and how I believe it 
came about. 

For it is my conviction that one’s vague ideas clarify 
only upon being crystallized into words. 

And, too, it should be entertaining to play this game 
of truth with myself. 


12 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


II 

Love is of man’s life a thing apart, 

’Tis woman’s whole existence. 

In the main I agree with Byron. But with the provision 
that circumstances—society—call it what you will, have 
brought about this state of things, and not that woman 
is more prone to love by nature than is man. 

Woman has been, and is still to a deplorable extent, in 
the position of a cat or a dog whose chief aim in life is the 
seeking out of a master. There are good masters and bad 
masters. The former generously sugar-coat the pill of 
her servitude, but the fact remains the same. 

With the common human unwillingness to face un¬ 
flattering truths, woman by a series of logical somersaults 
has arrived at the point where she herself believes that this 
quest for bread and meat and bed is something mystical, 
irrational, sublime. 

What is more important, she has succeeded in blinding 
man to the real situation. 

I have often speculated upon the nature of woman and 
the sum of my speculations is that she has sold her spir¬ 
itual birthright for a mess of quite ordinary pottage. 

How much more intriguing the real woman than the 
pale, milk-and-water myth which she for good reasons has 
allowed to gain currency! 

Even in this confidence game by which she acquires her 
living, what consummate art, what genius for organiza¬ 
tion, what Machiavellian purpose she has displayed. 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


13 


Chastity, duty, the sanctity of the home—these and 
many of our most impressive ideals are the direct out¬ 
growth of her determination to gain security for life. For 
she is strong enough to sacrifice the present to future 
advantage. 

She keeps her secret well, but in subtle, almost uncon¬ 
scious ways it is revealed. Who has not heard her lauding 
her own or some other’s husband as a “good provider”; 
who has not heard some man contemned for “failure to 
provide”! 

And she is unmerciful in her vengeance on those rebels 
in the ranks who adventurously prefer the pleasure of the 
moment to their lasting good. Such lack of business acu¬ 
men, she holds, is dangerous to herself and can be properly 
punished only by ostracism. That is, unless the rebel has 
an assured income from other sources and indulges in her 
adventures from selfish or philanthropical motives. Then 
it is called eccentricity or something of the sort, and 
countenanced, if never quite forgiven. 

Such being the case, any attempt to portray the inner 
life of a woman must of necessity deal to greater or less 
extent with this emotion, so marvelously compounded of 
various instincts and motives, that we call love. 

And as any attempt to write honestly of oneself calls 
for endless probing of mind and heart, so to understand 
the results of that probing, one must go back into past 
experiences for the key. . . . Or so I think, because 
there are many things in my own life that seem to prove 
the theory correct. There seems little relation, for ex¬ 
ample, between the step that led me to my pale green 


14 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


alcove and a vicious slap which I once administered to my 
mother when she tried to switch me; and yet, the line 
of connection is clear. Perhaps it goes beyond the slap to 
some potential, hereditary slap! . . . Who can say? 

How I yearn for more knowledge by which I might 
understand! But that is crying aloud in a wilderness. 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 
BOOK ONE 

I 

Father was a small town merchant. He attended 
church regularly and never gave me any pocket money. 

“What you have to have,” he would say, “you can get at 
the store and charge it.” 

My mother I remember dimly as one might recall a 
wailing, minor strain in music. She died when I was 
sixteen. 

I should like to go on record as having loved her, but 
I can not say that such was the case. There was always 
an instinctive hostility between us. 

In many ways she was a good woman, but intensely 
self-centered. Her principal topics of conversation were 
my father’s infidelity and parsimonious outlook, and my 
own lack of gratitude to herself. 

I have no doubt that tune would have mellowed her, nor 
do I doubt that her complaints were justified, but there 
is no tolerance in youth and I pursued my own way more 
ruthlessly after each fresh attack. 

Too indolent mentally to make the slight effort neces¬ 
sary to cultivate acquaintances of her own age, she labored 
for a number of years under the misapprehension that she 
15 


16 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


could successfully demand my company at any and all 
times that she desired. 

It is a trait that I have observed in many women, espe¬ 
cially those who are unhappily married—and very moral. 

But I was markedly unsentimental, and her close 
clingings only served to make me impatient to escape. 

Suffice it, that at eleven I made my declaration of inde¬ 
pendence and for the first time began to enjoy the society 
of my peers. 

n 

During the eighteen years that I spent in X- I 

formed only one friendship that approached intimacy. 
This was with a girl whom I shall call Marion—Marion 
Fairley. Our natures supplemented each other nicely. 
For whereas I was extremely precocious mentally with 
little sense about the more practical aspects of life, Marion 
had acquired a vast fund of what might be called expe¬ 
dient information. It is owing to her that I first began 
to inquire into people’s motives which before I had ac¬ 
cepted on their own account with a naive faith in human 
goodness that now seems incredible. 

Marion was a strange mixture of shrewdness, sly malice, 
tolerance and bigotry. No one could hope to escape the 
lashings of her nimble tongue . . . and yet, were they 
lashings? It was as if the doings of other people inter¬ 
ested her so greatly that she could never leave off dis¬ 
cussing them. ^ 



WINDOWS FACING WEST 


IT 


She would come into my bedroom, black eyes flashing, 
a subdued excitement in her whole bearing, and begin 
demurely but with eagerness: 

“Do you know something . . or, “What do you 
think . . . 99 

Inveterate gossips usually start with some such formula. 
Why, I have never discovered. 

She was repeatedly irritated with me for my frank 
display of boredom on occasions when this personal gossip 
became too long drawn out. I have always been too self- 
centered to concern myself with the business of other 
people, unless I care for them, and I must confess that 
this trait in Marion gave me a tremendous sense of 
superiority. 

Naturally it was she who explained to me the great 
mystery. And if for some years she bullied me mildly— 
patronized is the better word—because of my abysmal 
ignorance, I did not regard it as too high a price to pay. 

Head close to mine, voice dropped to a sibilant whisper, 
she put to flight the horde of vague conjectures flocking 
my mind by a plain and most detailed account of how 
babies come to be. 

“But that is beautiful,” I cried when she had done. 

“Beautiful! It*s nasty” Marion retorted with an air 
of finality and laughed when I gravely shook my head. 

Ill 

In trying to recall that misty time of childhood it is 
astonishing to what an extent the so-called significant 


18 WINDOWS FACING WEST 

happenings are blotted out. What remains is an oddly 
assorted lot of incidents, often nothing more than extra- 
ordinarily vivid pictures. 

Thus my sole recollections of an early journey with my 
mother are summed up in these two impressions: 

Myself in a new dress, standing on the platform of the 
train as we waved goodby to my father. The dress was 
blue with tiny gilt buttons (I was inordinately proud of 
those buttons), arranged in clusters on the blouse. From . 
under the roll brim of a new hat, my hair descended in a 
silky, burnished cascade to my waist. Carefully I settled 
it so that two thick swirls fell over my shoulders and 
formed a frame for my pale little face which no amount 
of excitement could tinge with color. But my eyes, I saw 
with some inner vision, were dark as a pool in the woods. 

Self-complacent, not a little priggish, I stood there con¬ 
sciously posing and tolerantly surveying my father. I 
even wondered vaguely how he came to be the father of 
such fragile loveliness as I knew myself to embody. In a 
seedy business suit with trousers which obscured his shde 
heels, a once-green tie now showing unnatural black dis¬ 
colorations, a shabby hat concealing his “bald spot and 
shadowing the furtive little eyes which now held an anx¬ 
ious, strained expression, he presented anything but a 
romantic figure. 

Then a great compassion swept over me and out of the 
magnanimity induced by my new clothes I blew him a 
kiss. 

He gulped with surprise and awkwardly waved a large, 
white hand. 



WINDOWS FACING WEST 19 

I liked to think that his anxious expression was due 
to concern for our welfare, but even then I knew my 
father. 

He would Be fifteen minutes late in opening the store. 


In a station “rest room” I sat on a hard bench beside a 
little old lady. The room was deserted but for us. My 
mother, always subject to train sickness, had become so 
violently ill that she had been forced to lie down during 
our half hour’s wait in this city whose name I can not 
recall. 

It was the business of the little old lady to keep me 
from the room beyond where my mother lay. It was my 
fanatical determination to escape her and flee thither. 

The little lady terrified me. 

It was hot and she flapped excitedly with a palmleaf fan 
of gigantic dimensions. I do not remember her face, only 
this fan and her voice, which responded to my arguments 
in a disturbed swish like the noise of her fanning. 

The air smelled strongly of carbolic disinfectant. 

So long as I sat quietly rigid, without protest, the little 
old lady seemed inert, heedless of my presence. But a 
move, a word, and she became vitalized. Furiously the 
palmleaf fan billowed the stale air about my face. “Swish, 
swish,” went the expostulating voice. 

Her fanning was a spell from which I could not escape. 


20 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


IV 

When a man is described as penurious, there is at once 
called to mind a picture of a penny-counting individual 
who buys only the cheapest goods and whose family lives 
in a shabby, ill-furnished house, crying for new paint and 
new fences. 

This is, of course, one type. 

My father was, more truly penurious. 

Such conduct as I have described above would have 
appeared to him the most wanton extravagance. 

Our house, in shape a perfect square with a small porch 
in front, stood on a corner lot near the center of town. 
Each of its rooms was an outside room and contained two 
large windows. Downstairs there were four rooms: par¬ 
lor, spare bedroom, dining room and kitchen. There was 
no hall. The entrance door opened into the parlor, behind 
which was the dining room, reached by sliding doors. 
Dining room and kitchen were connected by a swinging 
door. In the right wall of the parlor was a door which 
led into the spare room. 

A stairway in the parlor ended in a narrow hall above 
with a window at front and back. 

Opening on the hall were four rooms, square like those 
on the first floor, and exactly of a size. My mother’s and 
my father’s rooms on opposite sides at the front, my room 
at the back just across the hall from the combined bath¬ 
room and linen closet. 

The house was finished throughout in a dust-defying tan 
calsomine. The woodwork was light, the maple floors were 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


21 


always scrupulously clean (as was the entire house), and 
polished to a degree. The parlor floor was covered by 
a “drugget” or art-square; by the side of each bed a 
thick grass rug was neatly placed. With these exceptions 
the floors were bare. 

The prevailing atmosphere was that of a hospital minus 
the whiteness. 

My father was impatient of dust-gathering articles, so 
we possessed few of those knick-knacks that give atmos¬ 
phere to a home. The furniture, though of good, plain 
lines and solidly built (he bought for life), was of one 
finish, a brilliant golden oak,—a light veneer being, in his 
opinion, less indicative of wear than a dark one. 

Our fare was plain but very wholesome (sickness would 
have been expensive). We rarely had meat except in 
the winter when vegetables were very scarce—and more 
rarely still, desserts. 

One of my earliest recollections is of asking my father 
for a penny with which to buy an “all day sucker,” as they 
were called. 

“A penny,” he exclaimed. “Why, do you know that a 
penny is all it takes to send one of my bills to people. 
And for that penny they send me back a great deal of 
money. Besides, you mustn’t eat candy. . . . Mrs. 
May, you must forbid Gretchen from eating candy. It 
will ruin her teeth and then there’ll be a big dentist’s bill 
to pay.” 

My mother and me he regarded much as a farmer re¬ 
gards his stock. We were investments and it was up to 
him to make us pay. He gave us the best of care so that 


22 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


we might not cause him to pay more for his neglect than 
it would cost him to keep us in good condition. 

Also, he was a leading citizen in the community. It 
would never do to let it be thought that he could not 
afford to provide properly for wife and child. 

Every item of household affairs came under his super¬ 
vision. Even the clothes which my mother and I wore 
were selected by him—and selected with an eye to dura¬ 
bility. As I have said, he gave me no pocket money and 
I am sure my mother was in a similar predicament, so we 
were helpless to follow our own desires. We must look 
well, otherwise it might lose him a measure of esteem, but 
we must look well at a minimum cost. 

His own appearance gave him little concern. I can 
not remember ever having seen him in a new suit. When 
one of the shoddy, ill-fitting affairs which he habitually 
wore arrived at such a state of disrepair that he was 
forced to discard it, it was replaced by another from some 
mysterious source, but little less disreputable than the 
former. He never wasted money. When I made my first 
appearance, his business was already so firmly established 
that he was known all over the section as a “solid” man. 
He could afford small eccentricities. Indeed, I have al¬ 
ways suspected that his shabby clothes were somewhat 
consciously assembled with an idea of putting at their 
ease the large number of his rural customers who might 
have fought shy of a too-citified merchant. For once 
good business coincided with his deepest instincts. 

Twice a year the clothes question came up. Twice a 
year my mother, timid but defiant, would present him with 


1 WINDOWS FACING WEST 


23 


a list which she had gone over and over until it contained 
nothing but what she regarded as essentials. Twice a 
year we enjoyed the spectacle of that suave, white hand 
drawing decisive lines through this item and that item, 
with a lightning-like rapidity computing costs and reduc¬ 
ing costs commenting thus, in his silky voice—(there is 
always something of the eunuch in storekeepers) : 

“Gingham dresses for Gretchen . . . Hm! Percale is 
just as durable and less expensive.” 

Out “gingham,” in “percale”! 

I despised him, but could not refrain from a grudging 
admiration of his undoubted genius for economy. 

On one of these occasions there was an item that called 
for puckered brow and meditative pencil tapping. Mother 
had inserted in her section of the budget an item: Pink 
organdie for princess dress. 

We who remember the princess dress can visualize yet 
its lucid gores, seductively following the lines of the figure 
to the knees . . . the flamboyant whirl in which it 
terminated. 

When he reached this item my father paused in his 
reading aloud, glanced at mother, sitting there in tight- 
lipped determination, considered and then spoke: 

“Organdie . . . shoddy, unreliable material. . . . 
If it doesn’t split at the first wearing, it’s flimsy and bodi¬ 
less after the first washing. . . . Now Linen ...” 

“Well, a pink linen might look well,” my mother yielded, 
grateful for this tolerant acceptance of a frivolous sug¬ 
gestion. 

“Linen, yes . . . linen is trustworthy,” my father 


24 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


continued. “The initial cost is not much greater, and the 
wearing qualities are trebled. . . . But, pink . . . 
colored linen is never satisfactory. . . 

He considered again—came to a decision. 

“It’s a foolish style, scarcely good for a season. 
But,” he regarded my mother’s rather corpulent figure 
and smiled faintly, “in your case, my dear, the gores 
would not be so narrow as to prevent their being used after 
the style has gone out. . . . So a white linen might not 
be an extravagance. When you have finished wearing the 
dress,” he ended complacently, “you could make table 
napkins for everyday use out of the sections.” 

The pencil glided through “pink organdie,” substituted 
“white linen.” 

On the whole, it is remarkable that my mother lived as 
long as she did. 

Any woman would rather her husband beat her than 
have him interfere constantly in household matters usually 
admitted to be sacred to her. The former is less humiliat¬ 
ing, less of a nervous strain. 

y 

I never saw my father display anger but on two 
occasions. 

As a rule he sidled about the house, noiseless, imper¬ 
turbable, poking his large white nose into every corner— 
observing everything, jotting frequent memoranda in a 
battered red leather notebook as he conceived changes 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


25 


whereby expenses might be still further reduced; or else, 
working at his interminable budgets, never quite so ab¬ 
sorbed that he lost sight of what went on about him. 

I knew little or nothing of his life outside. There was 
a mysterious farm from which our vegetables, eggs, milk, 
butter and fresh meat were supplied. There was the store 
to which my mother and I, neatly dressed in our durable 
clothes, made rare pilgrimages. But the sight of my 
father, a tallish, loosely built shadow, delving silently 
and swiftly into the recesses piled deep with enticing fab¬ 
rics, only served to increase the mystery with which my 
childish fancy surrounded him. 

Several times each year he went on business trips from 
which he would return more complacent than ever—one 

could almost see him licking his chops-. After these 

excursions he showed an inclination to queer outbursts of 
facetiousness. 

Upon his return mother regularly spent two days in 
bed with a sick headache. She would insist upon having a 
doctor. It was her most effective way of retaliating. 

I entered public school when I was five, although the 
age set by law was six. However, as my father pointed 
out, I could read and write, and there was no reason for 
my staying at home wearing out things when I could be 
in school. A little judicious pressure applied to the 
schoolboard (most of the members owed him money) and 
the matter was arranged to the satisfaction of every one, 
including myself. 

I still recall my absurd delight in the desks and seats 
which were stained a dark cherry red. I was no less 



26 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


delighted with the big roomful of boys and girls for being 
a little afraid of them. 

Exhilarating possibilities of companionship opened be¬ 
fore me, though it was to be many years before I was per¬ 
mitted to enjoy that companionship outside of school 
hours. 

On the whole, that first year at school made small 
impression on me. 

There was a little girl whom I admired fervently, but 
from afar. Her hair was curly and flaxen, her clothes a 
marvel of daintiness and fragility. Even her stout cold- 
weather dresses and wraps possessed a picturesque quality 
that was my envy and despair. How I hated my own 
brown coat of everlasting cloth when Alice appeared in 
a dark green fairy garment, her flaxen curls snuggled 
against its big cape-collar edged with fur! We never 
came to know each other. Why, I can not think because 
her glance sought mine many times across the big room. 
Perhaps even then I had some obscure hesitation in putting 
my dreams to the test. A deity should never be accosted, 
nor an ideal attained. 

The little boy who sat opposite me was very fat with 
freckles and impish eyes. I distrusted him profoundly. 
He looked the sort of person who would laugh at one. 

Our teacher was busy at the blackboard, the class intent 
on some seatwork, when he leaned over to me. 

“I’ll bet you a hundred dollars you won’t take off your 
clothes and go stand up on the platform,” he observed in 
a whisper. 

I considered, then shook my head decisively. 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


27 


“No, I won’t,” I whispered back. 

That evening in talking to mother who always inquired 
minutely into each day’s happenings, I mentioned the 
incident. Instantly I regretted having done so. Her 
face flamed and she flew into a passion of rage which 
seemed groundless to me. 

“The common little beast,” she repeated over and over, 
in tones vibrant with resentment. 

“But, mother,” I tried to soothe her, “I wasn’t going 
to do it.” 

My efforts at pacifying her had no effect. 

Nothing would do but that I must repeat my story to 
father. 

By this time, having obtained such gratifying results, 
I was feeling very self-important and gave my account 
with sly gusto. Father questioned me closely, nodded once 
or twice and abruptly left the house without comment. 

The next day the little boy was absent. He continued 
absent throughout the rest of that year. 

It was only during the next year when he again took 
his place in the first grade that I realized even dimly the 
methods employed by my father. 

The school-house stood at one end of the principal 

street in X-. It was flanked by extensive playgrounds, 

one for the boys, one for the girls. 

Under a big tree on the girls’ side some of the older 
pupils were teaching me the game of “stick frog” which 
involves the throwing of a pocket knife from various 
positions of the hands so that its blade is buried in the 
earth sufficiently to hold the knife upright. 



28 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


It was a mild day in early spring and we had all shed 
our coats. A gentle rain the night before had moistened 
the turf just enough to render conditions most favorable 
for the game. 

With the open knife held by its point in my left hand, 
my arms crossed in front, right over left, right hand 
clutching left ear, I was just preparing for a difficult 
throw, inelegantly termed “hugging the sow” when I saw 
an agitated figure descending upon me from the street. 

It was the first time I had seen my father at the school. 

Breathless with fury, he seized the knife from my limp 
fingers and jerked me to my feet. 

“Don’t you know,” he panted, “that you will get pneu¬ 
monia and be sick for weeks with trained nurses and doc¬ 
tors and all sorts of expense if you sit on this wet ground! 
And, as if that wasn’t enough, you must amuse yourself 
with a butcher knife! Is this what I’m paying taxes to 
have you taught?” 

One dire possibility after another fell from his lips, 
each more expensive than the previous, while I stood there 
miserably—too terrified for speech. 

At the time, I attributed his discovery of me to my 
“hard luck.” Since then, I have arrived at a different 
conclusion. 

He seemed to possess the self-preservative instinct to 
an abnormal degree. In the most uncanny way he could 
scent out active or latent danger to his vital self, his bank 
account. 

The second fit of rage into which I saw him plunged 
occurred when I was nine. 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


29 


Our house was never one of those to which people are 
naturally attracted. It was forbidding in its bare clean¬ 
liness. Neighbors, though they respected my mother, 
could never simulate real friendliness. Her fretful jeal¬ 
ous spirit repelled them. 

But our relations were invited in regular order to pay 
us a week’s visit, one each year. Most of them patronized 
me, and those I did not actively dislike, I ignored. 

My cousin Lillian, or Lagi, as she preferred to be called, 
was a revelation to my naive mind. She was a sophis¬ 
ticated little piece, not pretty but attractive in a 
sparkling, provocative way, and the vain possessor of 
many beautiful dresses. 

I hated her. 

It was not that she had things such as I had always 
longed for, but that she openly sneered at my wardrobe 
and referred in no doubtful terms to the superiority of 
her own. 

Matters came to a climax two days before her 
departure. 

We were going to a birthday party that Saturday 
afternoon. Arrayed in my best dress which in summer 
was always a white voile, I was standing before the mir¬ 
ror in my bedroom trying my leghorn hat at various 
angles in an effort to achieve something of Lagi’s own 
distinction, when the door opened and Lagi appeared on 
her way to the bathroom—she never began dressing until 
I was quite ready to start, and the long waits this habit 
of hers necessitated was perhaps not the least part of my 
grievance against her. 


30 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


At sight of me Lagi theatrically smothered a snicker. 

“My dear Gretchen, where do you buy your clothes?” 

Hot with resentment, I gave her the superfluous infor¬ 
mation that my mother made them. 

“What are you going to wear,” I asked quickly, depos¬ 
iting my leghorn hat on the bureau. 

“Oh, just a little old lace dress mother brought me 
from Fifth Avenue in New York City. . . . That’s 
where all the society women buy their clothes.” 

In profound silence I automatically brushed my hair. 

“Go down and look at it, if you want to,” she offered 
with pharasaical kindness, “it’s laid out on the bed.” 

She surveyed me again, again the wicked, mocking light 
flashed in her eyes—and she was gone. 

To the sound of running water and a too-well remem¬ 
bered snicker, I went downstairs. The door to the spare 
room drew me irresistibly. 

A fluff of white lace and cherry colored ribbon, the 
“little old” dress greeted me. So beautiful it was that I 
gasped in sheer hopelessness. 

A monumental distaste for my own voile with its sub¬ 
stantial cluny trimming came rushing over me anew, as I 
examined the cunningly fashioned silk flowers, the ribbon 
bows of Lagi’s party dress. 

Then something primitive and Hun-like superimposed. 
This loveliness which I had been worshipping must be 
blotted out, because it was Lagi’s. In a frenzied search my 
eye fell on her manicure scissors. ... A dozen scalloped 
rents and the sacrilege was complete. 

In a more peaceful mood, I left the house and traversed 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 31 

the hot length of the street to Marion’s house, where the 
birthday party was to be. 


Never before had my physical self suffered violation. 
At the first sting of the switch in mother’s hand, all the 
furious self-respect in me flared up. I should have 
killed her, had it been possible. As it was, I enjoyed 
hugely the impact of my hand on her flabby cheek. Too 
shocked to continue her assault, she pronounced a religious 
text something about young eagles and eyes—and left 
the room with dignity, no doubt to condole with Lagi. 

It must have been twelve o’clock when I was awakened 
by the cover over me being violently thrown back and a 
series of blows which I could not at first realize, even, so 
cruelly violent they were. 

The blows ceased, the cover was switched back. Out 
of the darkness over me came a silky voice that I knew. 

“That may teach you not to destroy thirty dollar 
dresses.” 

I do not think I cried out. I was too stunned. That 
night my mind refused to accept the hideous fact. 

But in the morning when I awoke, stiff and sore, and 
perceived that my father’s hand descending flail-like on 
my tender skin had left on my thigh the impression of its 
long fingers in raised welts that looked like blisters, but 
Were hard; there was born in me the hatred of him which 
I have never outgrown. 

What a mass of unpleasant things I am relating about 
him. And yet, he had his good qualities, no doubt. It is 


32 WINDOWS FACING WEST 

onty that they were not exercised in the privacy of his 
home. 

He was a regular church-goer—scrupulously honest 
and an incredibly hard worker. 

And, after all, there are many domestic tyrants who m 
public are hailed as benevolent—many shrews whom their 
chance acquaintances call blessed. 

VI 

It was during my father’s absence on one of his business 
trips that mother exhibited the first symptoms of a disease 
which finally proved fatal. 

For several days she had complained of not feeling well, 
but I was so accustomed to her plaints that I attached no 
importance to her present indisposition, especially as she 
kept at work, steadily refusing to go to bed. 

We expected father on Friday. Thursday night I re¬ 
tired early in the hope of being able to finish a book 
(which I had borrowed from Marion Fairley) before his 
return. 

About nine o’clock I heard mother’s somewhat pon¬ 
derous tread on the stairs and switched off my bedside 
light. She mounted to the top, breathing heavily and 
giving vent to frequent, gusty sighs which caused me to 
shrug my shoulders impatiently. Mother had always 
enjoyed acting the martyr. 

She paused on the landing. I could picture the cha¬ 
grined look that I knew appeared when she saw my. 
light was off. 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


33 


“Gretchen,” she called cautiously. 

I lay quiet, knowing that she would come in for a talk, 
if she knew I was awake. 

She resumed her deliberate progress. The door to her 
room clicked shut behind her and in a few minutes I heard 
the muffled noise of a heavy body falling into bed. 

A little longer, and I switched on my light again, drew 
the alluring volume from under the cover and proceeded 
to lose myself in the amorous adventures of one Hilde- 
garde. 

It must have been one o’clock when I was startled from 
my absorption by an agonized moaning from the next 
room. 

Thoroughly frightened, I ran over the cold floors to 
mother’s room and found her writhing about on the bed in 
spasms of pain. 

“What is the matter,” I asked helplessly. 

She took no notice of me. The dull moaning continued. 
Her suffering absorbed her utterly. 

“Oh, mother, can’t you tell me where the pain is,” I 
begged. 

She looked at me with remote, glassy eyes. 

“Tell me,” I insisted, forcing a note of authority into 
my voice. 

“Here, and here, and here . . . and everywhere,” she 
nattered, touching her head and chest and limbs. 

The moaning and twisting began again. 

I called a doctor, then built a roaring fire in the kitchen 
stove. As I set the big iron kettle over the flames. It 
tipped forward and a dash of icy water from the spout 


34 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


soaked through my nightgown. I realized that I was very 
cold. My bare feet were purplish and my hands stiff. 

“This will never do,” I told myself. 

To the sound of those unearthly groans I drew on warm 
clothing. 

To whom should I turn! Into my distracted mind leapt 
the thought of Rose O’Malley, a careless, good-natured 
Irish girl who came in to do the work when mother suc¬ 
cumbed to her headaches. 

“I’m going for Rose, mother.” 

No pause in the distressing cries. 

I met Doctor Royce on the porch. 

No, there was nothing I could do at present. 

Down the steps and out the gate I fl<W, disregarding 
his remonstrances. I must have some one with me in that 
terrible house. 

Rose lived only three blocks away, but it seemed as if 
I should never get there, whipped on as I was by the 
sound of mother’s groans in my ears. 

It was late in January. For days it had been cloudy. 
Now a fine driving rain had set in which froze as it fell. 

Afterwards in thinking of that night I always see 
myself, a veritable Banshee, speeding bareheaded through 
the icy mist, with long hair streaming out behind me, 
stumbling, sobbing dryly when I lost my balance and fell, 
but always going on. 

Certainly Rose was startled when she opened the door 
on my white face, wild eyes and red hair festooned with 
frozen rain drops. 

She drew me impulsively into her little parlor with its 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


35 


impressive decorations: a framed Bible text bordered with 
shamrocks over which a crucifix hung, the pictures of her 
six husky brothers, and the bunch of wax flowers in a glass 
case. 

Her capable optimism reassured me. No very dire 
calamity could befall us with Rose in charge. 

Even so, there was a long night and day of unrelax- 
ing vigilance before the doctor pronounced mother out 
of danger. 

The coma and convulsions had been accompanied by 
inflammation in the chest which, but for Rose’s skilled 
nursing, would have developed into pneumonia. 

When father arrived late Friday night the crisis was 
past, but I think I have never seen a more frightened man 
than he appeared when he learned of mother’s attack. 

She lay inert, her face (which in defiance of the body’s 
flabby corpulence had remained thin, with skin tight 
stretched over brow and high cheekbones) showed a dingy 
brown against the pillows. After visiting her, father but¬ 
tonholed Dr. Royce in the parlor and urged him to spare 
no pains nor expense in getting her well as quickly as 
possible. Dr. Royce assured him that all immediate 
danger was past, if his directions were observed, but that 
the disease might continue in chronic form, in which case, 
he was helpless to effect a cure. 

Father was exceedingly perturbed. Mother was an 
excellent housekeeper—had he not trained her?—and his 
mind was already busy with the problem of obtaining some 
one at little cost to take her place, should the worst occur. 


36 WINDOWS FACING WEST 

He again urged the doctor to spare no expense in getting 
her well. 

He repeated this injunction to Rose on Sunday morning 
when she and I were preparing dinner. 

“I am very much concerned, Rose, about Mrs. May,” 
he ended, sidling out of the kitchen on his way to church. 

Rose winked openly at me as she recklessly cut off half 
a print of butter and plopped it into the pudding sauce. 

Then she amused me hugely by singing in a sly under¬ 
tone a song she had learned in some of her travels: 

You hypocrite, you Beelzebub, 

You dwell among the swine. 

You go to God with a flattering tongue 
And leave your heart behind! 


YII 

Sundays at home were always insufferably tedious. 

At best there was little amusement to be had in X-, 

and on the seventh day there was a rigid ban on that 
little. So long as one observed the forms of righteousness, 
any amount of secret vice was winked at. 

Intolerant as was the town, my mother was even more 
so. Sunday was a day of forced inaction. Dinner was 
cooked with breakfast and left in the warmer until one 
o’clock. Supper was a cold pick-up. Music was for¬ 
bidden—except sacred music, which meant dolorous Meth¬ 
odist hymn tunes—reading must be confined to the Bible 
and the various church papers. 

This was God’s day—how I came to loathe the sound of 



WINDOWS FACING WEST 


37 


those words!—and my mother as God’s viceroy intended 
that it should be properly observed. 

Though she did not attend church regularly, she took 
care that I should do so, and, until I openly rebelled, the 
day was rendered still more offensive by a long sermon, 
morning and evening, through which I sat in an inatten¬ 
tive, uncomfortable stupor on the hard pew. 

Most of the young people consoled themselves for the 
day’s inadequacies by long walks in the afternoon, but 
mother looked askance at even this innocent diversion. 

Father had no such convictions. He never objected to 
my doing what the best people did, so long as it cost him 
nothing. He went to church because it was good business 
and insisted that I should put in an appearance there at 
not too great intervals for the same reason. Beyond this, 
his concern for my spiritual welfare did not extend. He 
might have forbidden the walks on account of the damage 
to my shoes, but this, he reluctantly admitted, was 
neutralized by their beneficial effects. 

Mother was more altruistic. She had called an im¬ 
mortal soul into being and it was her duty to see that soul 
duly imbued with the right aspirations—her aspira¬ 
tions. 

In spirit a true Puritan, she regarded the world as a 
snare and a delusion and endeavored by precept and 
example to set my thoughts on higher things—the life 
hereafter. One of the ways by which she strove to attain 
her purpose was a daily hour of Bible reading. This was 
a mistake. Catholics, I have heard, are forbidden to read 
parts of the Bible. In this the church does well, for no 


38 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


one can be thoroughly familiar with this best of books and 
retain an unshaken faith in its divine inspiration. 

No one? Yes, many. My mother (and her kind are 
legion) possessed a faith which cloaked the most glaring 
inconsistencies with meaning—none the less there because 
her eyes were blinded by sin to its existence. This un¬ 
questioning acceptance she tried to instil into me. 

She was not successful. 

I was never sufficiently practical to be a good Christian. 

And, this insistence on a profession of belief in the 
entire Bible is to me as absurd as insisting that one sub¬ 
scribe to all the ideas contained in the collected works of, 
say, the Elizabethans. 

I have read The Psalms, Ecclesiasts, and The Song 
of Solomon with real delight, and I have always felt a 
whimsical tenderness for funny old Job—but how any 
self-respecting woman can endorse St. Paul, Genesis and 
Leviticus is beyond my comprehension. 

Mother had good reason to regard the world as a snare. 
Even I had been pretty badly snared at the outset by the 
circumstance of my birth into this incredible family. But 
that I regarded as a temporary misfortune which I should 
in time outlive. Otherwise, the world enchanted me. And, 
leery of a future life, I could never rid myself of an irrev¬ 
erent conviction that, in her bargain with the Supreme 
Being, mother had been pretty badly sold, as the English 
say. 

It was the fact of her too great intolerance which 
brought about a revulsion in me to all the creeds and 
dogmas which we sum up in the word Christian . . . 



WINDOWS FACING WEST 


39 


which set me to seeking my own way, and my own good— 
a way and a good quite dissimilar to hers—so, on the 
whole, I am grateful. 

Marion Fairley first planted the seeds of rebellion in 
my mind. Previously I had refrained from the walks, 
submitting to a torporous afternoon in the face of threats 
of eternal damnation and the certainty of a scene. 

“Oh, please come, Gretchen! We’re going to the Falls 
and it’s so pretty outdoors,” she begged one afternoon. 

“Mother won’t let me,” I replied doubtfully. 

“How silly,” she cried, “why, what can she do ?” 

What could she do, come to think of it? True, she 
could say , but I was hardened to that. Here was I, a 
great girl nearly twelve years old, and mother treated 
me like a baby. 

On the porch father dozed in a chair, handkerchief 
covering his face from the glare and the flies. Mother, 
I knew, was having her afternoon nap surrounded by 
religious literature. 

My own room was hot and bright with June sunshine. 
(There were no trees on our place. Father said they 
caused houses to rot.) Why should I spend four uncon¬ 
genial hours cooped up here when freedom and delight 
depended only on a little resolution! 

“I’ll be over in a few minutes,” I told Marion suddenly. 

“Mother,” I called softly, opening her door. 

She started and quickly opened her eyes. 

“Mother,” I began, using an unaccustomed formula, 
“I’m going to walk with Marion and some of the girls.” 

She looked at me in astonishment. 


40 WINDOWS FACING WEST 

“Do you know whose day this is,” she asked rhetor- 
ically. 

I omitted the obvious answer. 

“It’s not your day,” she continued in a sepulchral tone, 
“it’s God’s day, and you have no right to use it for your 
pleasure.” 

“I’ll be back about five,” I remarked, ignoring her 
exhortation. 

“Gretehen! Do you know the commandments— Have 
you forgotten your God?” she cried dramatically, now 
thoroughly roused. 

Even the meekest worm will turn disrespectful, given 
sufficient prodding. 

“No,” I answered hotly, “but I’m forgetting yours just 
as fast as I can!” 

The slam of the door cut into her weeping as I ran 
to join Marion. 

I was cruel. So is all youth, with the cruelty of life 
itself. How else can it exist in a society where parents 
assert rights of ownership over both bodies and minds of 
their children? 


vni 

That afternoon marked the end of mother’s authority 
over me. True, she continued her protests, but in a half¬ 
hearted way as if she knew they would be disregarded. Her 
complaints lost their edge of bitterness which made them 
seem even less justified than before. It was as if she had 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


41 


ceased to care and only continued bemoaning her fate from 
a sense of habit. 

More and more she was inclined to drowsiness—seldom 
leaving the house except to potter about in the few rows 
of hardy annuals at the edge of the back yard. Her face 
with its brownish skin and deep sunk, pocketed eyes, never 
failed to stab me when I chanced on her among the 
flowers. 

Death tending life! 

From long custom she kept the house spotless, of which 
she was secretly proud. And she was proud of my looks 
and of my progress in school, though she would have 
gone to the stake rather than admit it. 

As she lost ground, my father seemed to gain ground. 
His business trips became more frequent. The store was 
expanding. Soon he would need an assistant. It was his 
plan to have me learn typewriting and book-keeping and 
come in as cashier, clerk and general office help when I 
had finished school. In this I unwillingly concurred. No 
other course seemed possible. I was too young to leave 
home; even if mother could have managed without my 
help, and father would not hear of college. 

How little members of a family know one another! Here 
were we three housed together, no one of whom was in 
sympathy with any other. Mother, intent on her salva¬ 
tion; father, on his advancement; myself, a blend of 
unreliable chemicals which any chance touch might 
explode. 

Father came into my room early one morning, his pallor 
tinged with grey, and sat down abruptly. 


42 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


“Gretchen, your mother is dead,” he burst out. 

I gazed at him incredulously. His long hands were 
shaking queerly, and there was terror in the glance he 
gave me. 

“Dead, I tell you,” he cried again, his voice breaking 
excitedly, “Oh, God!” 

“Oh, God,” I echoed numbly, the ghastly fact unreal¬ 
ized. “Oh, God!” 

“Phone for Rose,” he ordered impatiently, “I don’t 
know when it happened. She’ll have to be got ready—it’s 
awful—awful!” 

That defeated clay had now more power than it had 
ever possessed in life. A presence, awful, portentous, 
hovered behind the closed door at which I stood trembling. 

An almost tangible stillness in the room—on the bed, 
a body, unbeautiful, puffy with marks of the disease, but 
clothed in dignity—terribly remote. 

That breast had nursed me, those hands tended me, 
sewed for me, ironed for me, cooked for me—Yet what had 
I now to do with this! With primitive repulsion I gazed on 
death. . . . Shameful fact, more shameful than illness! 

Rose found me there. 

“Poor, motherless darlin’,” she crooned, sweeping me 
into her great arms. 

“Oh, Rose, there’ll have to be a funeral, won’t there,” 
I sobbed, “and black dresses and awful music. ... I 
can’t stand it, Rose, I can't! 19 


BOOK TWO 


I 

My sixteenth birthday found me duly installed in the 
store as father’s assistant—found me enjoying the first 
real freedom I had ever known. 

To begin with, father had wanted me to work for board 
and clothes, but I was not so easily trapped. Already I 
had learned the potency of money. Money, however little, 
I must have for my services. 

He persuaded, argued, threatened. But I was 
adamant. Finally he gave in, and, I must say, he gave 
in with very good grace. Ten dollars a week was the sum 
fixed upon. For this I was to work from nine in the morn¬ 
ing until seven at night—on Saturdays, until ten-thirty. 

But he employed a characteristic subterfuge for all 
that. 

“You can hardly expect me to pay you a great sum of 
money like this and hire a housekeeper too,” he reasoned. 
“I’ll open up at quarter of eight as usual, and you needn’t 
come until nine. That’ll give you time to wash the dishes 
and clean the house before you leave. Then at noon you 
can run home for a cold snack and set out something for 
me. You ought to be back by one—I’ll stay until then 
so I won’t have to shut up the store and lose a lot of trade. 
. . . That darned Jew across the street don’t even stop 

43 


44 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


to sleep. . . . Rose will come in and get supper for a 
couple of dollars a week.” 

It was not an easy program. But all my life I had 
been accustomed to early rising and little time to myself, 
so it did not seem impossible. Indeed, the prospect of 
owning ten dollars each week would have taken the sting 
from a much more irksome routine. 

So it was agreed. 

Each morning I awoke at six-thirty to the vibrant blare 
of an alarm clock, jumped out of bed and dressed, summer 
and winter, in a fireless room, hurried downstairs to find 
the kitchen stove hot (my father made the fire before he 
dressed) and began breakfast. By seven he had come 
sidling in and sat down without comment to eggs and 
sausages or fried potatoes and codfish balls. By half-past 
seven he had finished breakfast and newspaper and was 
gone. 

Then followed a wild scramble of dishwashing and bed¬ 
making and floor-mopping, always with an eye on the 
clock, for I was “docked” if more than five minutes late 
at the store. By twenty minutes to nine the house was 
shining with cleanliness and order, a cold lunch covered 
on the kitchen table, and I buttoning myself into a fresh 
blouse. 

I was never even five minutes late. 

I shall always look back upon those two years with 
pardonable pride. What an efficient person I had become, 
overnight, almost! But the glory of ten dollars a week 
was largely responsible. Surely, if the love of money is 
the root of all evil, it is also the root of many virtues. 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


45 


Every Monday on my way home to lunch I stopped by 
the bank and deposited five dollars. The other five went 
for clothes, “treats,” and candy—quantities of candy, 
candy of all kinds from licorice and gumdrops to the 
weekly quarter-pound box of chocolates which was my 
Sunday’s dissipation. The craving of sixteen years cried 
for satisfaction, and I indulged it shamelessly. But I was 
careful to brush my teeth scrupulously after a debauch, 
and I examined them constantly with the aid of two small 
mirrors . . . none of my precious savings should enrich 
the dentist, if I could help it. Gradually, as I coidd per¬ 
ceive no flaws in their milky surface, a bitterness entered 
my soul. 

Candy did not decay the teeth. It was a cry of wolf 
which my father had used all those years to save an 
occasional nickel. 

If he suspected my vice, he gave no signs of it. His 
manner toward me had undergone a subtle change. An 
ingratiating undertone was now apparent. 

I had become a distinct business asset. I drew trade. 

The country people who crowded the store on Satur¬ 
days and holidays would gaze in openmouthed wonder at 
my hair and slender hands. The women asked my advice 
about their clothes, and household problems. 

Nor was it only the country people who liked to have 
me wait on them. The store began to attract an element 
of trade which formerly had bought everything in New 
York or Albany. Women would come in and, if I was 
busy, wait until I had finished, to match samples or find 


46 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


patterns, or get my advice about what colors they should 
wear. 

I was conscious of my attraction (what person is not?) 
and only unpleasantly so when the salesmen came. After 
a time they grew to wait until father’s lunch hour to visit 
us, and then I was forced to endure their presence until 
he returned. They made confident advances, offered me 
absurd reductions in ready-to-wear garments, strove by 
admirable persistency to reach some sort of assured 
footing with me. 

But I was quite unawakened. The only emotion they 
inspired in me was a tolerant distrust. Their sophisti¬ 
cated posings instinctively repelled me. They didn’t ring 
quite true. 

Still, they, too, increased my consciousness of being an 
asset, and it was after one of my most determined ad¬ 
mirers had made father an unusually low rate on an order 
of shoes that I determined to ask for a raise. 

I approached him at the end of a particularly successful 
day. 

“Father,” I began with inward quaking, “I’ve been 
working for you a year now, and I think I ought to have 
more money.” 

He seldom showed surprise except in an excess of delib¬ 
eration. Now he put down his paper precisely and tapped 
absently on the arm of his chair while he surveyed me. 

Finally he laughed tolerantly. 

“Getting ideas, aren’t you, my dear?” 

“Yes,” I replied. 

“Well,” he went on, “you must remember that I ran the 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


47 


store for a good many years without you—and I can do 
it again, if necessary.” 

But I was ready for him. 

“Then, I’ll go over to Mr. Berman’s and ask him for a 
job. He’ll be glad to give me fifteen dollars.” 

He tapped in silence for a few minutes. 

66 You’ve done well,” he spoke at last, “but, if I give you 
a raise, you aren’t to get any ideas that you’re indispen¬ 
sable. I’ll give you fourteen a week.” 

“Thank you, father,” I murmured, turning to go. 

“Wait a minute,” he called after me. “This extra 
expense is considerable. We’ll have to cut down. I think 
you can manage cooking supper except on Saturdays. 
We’ll let Rose come in then.” 


II 

Feom the first the rigidity of my routine had left me 
little time for social life except a few hours in the evening 
which I was usually only too glad to spend quietly— 
reading, sewing or just resting. 

Now that cooking dinner had been added to the list of 
my duties, I seldom finished work for the day before nine 
o’clock. Aching with fatigue, I would undress, get into 
bed and open a book. But sleep generally overtook me 
before I had read twenty pages. Many times I have 
wakened at six-thirty to find the light still burning, the 
book beside my pillow where it had fallen from my sleepy 
hands. 

Even the shrewdest man can over-reach himself. Father, 


48 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


in dispensing with Rose’s services had deprived me of a 
safety valve. I had always lived vicariously in books— 
no matter how prosaic my own existence, it was rendered 
endurable by the solace of losing myself at night in the 
more glorious lives of others. 

Now that was gone. 

I became restless, questioning. 

“Is this life,” I would ask myself, “this getting up at 
dawn, a day of drudgery, a night of animal-like sleep in 
order that I shall be able to get up at dawn and go 
through the same program again . . . and again?” 

I took to poring over my bank book. 

During my first year in the store I had saved two 
hundred and sixty dollars. Since my “raise,” I had always 
put ten, and sometimes fourteen dollars in the bank every 
week. Beyond an occasional new dress, my expenditures 
were small, and it was the joy of seeing my hoard increase 
that kept me from utter despair. 

I can not think why I did not indulge my passion for 
pretty clothes and footwear. The piles of rich fabrics in 
the store often wrung from me a longing that was almost 
physical in its violence, but I never permitted myself to 
draw on my savings. 

Perhaps the thought of escape was always present in 
the back of my mind, all the more powerful for being 
unconscious. 

However that be, I cooked and cleaned and clerked none 
the less efficiently because I went through the days like a 
somnambulist. 

There were periods of intense self-consciousness. 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


49 


Standing before the mirror at night brushing my long, 
heavy hair, I would catch my reflection and start with 
surprise, as if seeing myself for the first time. A Narcissa, 
gazing wide-eyed on her own loveliness. . . . With cool 
fingers I would follow the pale oval of my face down to the 
throat, trace my body’s lines as far as the narrow hips— 
wonder at the texture of my skin and the mass of flaming 
color that was my hair. 

Surely I, who have worshipped beauty so long, may say 
with all reverence that I was beautiful—am still beautiful, 
though some of that early radiance has departed. 

I hoarded my beauty as I hoarded my money—against 
some future need. I was never too tired at night to brush 
my hair the prescribed hundred strokes, nor to rub into 
my skin the cream which kept it satiny smooth. Not 
once in my morning rush did I neglect to draw on gloves— 
rubber ones for dishwashing, an old pair of woolen mittens 
for sweeping and mopping. 

Marion used to laugh at my precautions. 

“You’re sure to be an old maid—you’re so fussy,” she 
once told me. 

I looked at the skin of her face which showed tiny, 
rough patches under the powder, at her hair, broken and 
lifeless from habitual “tangling,” and neglected to make 
the reply which was certain to anger her. 

Marion was careless of details. So long as she presented 
a satisfactory ensemble, she thought nothing of the im¬ 
pression produced by minor insufficiencies. While I have 
always held that, if each part be perfect, the whole can 
not be less. 


50 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


We were intensely critical of each other, as most girls 
are; yet coloring her attitude was a half-scornful, half- 
envious admiration; permeating mine, an affectionate 
gratitude for her friendship which held us together in the 
face of surface incompatibilities. 

“What do you think,” she cried one evening, entering 
my room and closing the door carefully behind her. “The 
old Frazer place is being opened!” 

“Well,” I queried, “what if it is?” 

“Mrs. Frazer is coming to spend the summer,” she 
went on, undaunted by my lack of enthusiastic response, 
“but that isn’t half,” she paused dramatically, “Jake 
Frazer’s coming too!” 

“Jake Frazer . . . ?” 

“Oh, don’t you remember him,” Marion burst out irri¬ 
tated at my denseness. “He lived here until Mr. Frazer 
died and his mother moved away. His father left a lot 
of money and last year Jake came of age, so now it’s all 
his. They say he’s gorgeous, my dear, simply gorgeous— 
a Junior at Cornell and all that, but wild as they make 
them. Drinks and all that!” 

I had never seen Marion so excited. 

“Never heard of him,” I replied laconically. 

“Oh, you have, too,” she insisted. “Why, he started 
to school the same year we did and then dropped out a 
year, I don’t know why.” 

Suddenly out of the dark corners of memory there leapt 
the face of a little boy—a fat face with impish, mocking 
eyes. He had sat opposite me in the first grade . . . 
he had said something to me . . . there had been an 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 31 

awful row at home. . . . What was it he had said to 
me? 

Marion’s eyes were fixed greedily on my face. 

‘‘You do remember,” she cried. 

“Yes, I remember now,” I said slowly. “I don’t think 
I shall like him.” 


Ill 

In May I conceived the idea of bringing my lunch to the 
store. This gave me a precious hour and a half for 
reading. For father, who had been complaining of the 
haste with which he had to eat at noon, seized this oppor¬ 
tunity to leave at twelve, instead of one, as was his 
custom, and remained away until half-past one. 

Indigestion was his bugbear and while the new arrange¬ 
ment did not serve to make him eat more slowly (that 
could not have been accomplished) it gave him time for a 
quiet half hour in which to “digest,” as he put it. 

For once, his interests coincided with my own. 

I was famished for books as I had never been for food. 

I had long ago exhausted the “popular novels” of the 
town library. Now in my greed I turned to dusty, un¬ 
disturbed shelves in search of new pastures. 

The instinct for good literature must have been present 
in me always, for I found myself captured almost instantly 
by the contents of those neglected volumes which I 
exhumed. 

Tom Jones . . . Don Quixote . . . Maupassant’s 
stories, in what I now realize was a very bad translation 


52 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


. . . The Black Tulip . . . The Lady of the Camel¬ 
lias . . . Truth . . . Pride and Prejudice and Sense 

and Sensibility (which I enjoyed in spite of their appalling 
titles) . . . Jane Eyre . . . The Arabian Nights 
. . . Tess . . . Jude . . . The Return of the Na¬ 
tive . . . Grimm’s Fairy Tales . . . Emerson’s Es¬ 

says. . . . These serve to show the variety of my read¬ 
ing. I devoured books with an almost incredible rapidity. 
Three to four hours generally sufficed for a novel. 

Dickens, whom I read at the age of twelve was the only 
Standard Author with whose work I had been familiar. 
Father had obtained a set bound in red near-Morocco 
from a customer who could not pay his bill. These 
volumes with The Encyclopedia of Useful Knowledge 
stood solitarily behind the shining glass doors of a 
section bookcase—our library. 

During my age of innocence while I still cherished a few 
stray illusions, I would ask father for money to buy some 
longed-for book. His refusal was invariably tinged with 
surprise. 

"Why, what more books do you want? Anything you 
have to know you can look up in the Encyclopedia there. 
There are over five million facts in those books,” he always 
ended, "you’d do well to study them.” 

Of course, there had been four years of casual Shake- 
peare in High School. But this had only moved me 
to an attitude of profound aversion from the celebrated 
dramatist. 

French novels which are now my especial delight, 
affected me then much as raw meat. My cast of mind was 



WINDOWS FACING WEST 


53 


uncompromisingly romantic. I leaned toward the fan¬ 
tastic, the improbable. 

\ et, strangely enough, I was profoundly attracted by 
Hardy. 

The explanation is probably that I was attracted to the 
personality of the man as I imagined him —a fiery, dark, 
Cyclopean soul, attuned to loneliness, conversant with 
despair, seeing man helpless in the grip of circumstance, 
yet hopeful of man. The sublime courage of him who 
could believe The Dynasts and live! Tragedy is always 
romantic. 

Perhaps of all my reading during that summer it was 
Hardy and Emerson who exerted the greatest influence. 
Not that I accepted either completely, but that they 
started trains of thought in my mind which have helped 
to shape my destiny. 


Rain obscures the lacy pattern of branches opposite 
my window, shuts me tight in a green core at the center of 
the grey-swathed world. 

On such a day my reading at the store could be indulged 
without fear of interruption. 

Propped back in a straight chair behind the thread 
cases, with my feet on a small wooden box, I would munch 
tasteless sandwiches and apples, my eyes never straying 
from the volume on my lap. At twenty-five minutes past 
one, I’d snap the book shut, brush the crumbs from my 
dress and, kicking the box under a counter, make my way 
to the back of the store where I washed my hands scrupu- 


54 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


lously so that no trace of food could remain to injure the 
fabrics that I measured. When father returned I would 
be sitting with an expectant eye on the door, or waiting 
on some customer who had just entered. 

On such a day as this, I finished Tess. I wept aloud, 
concealed behind the thread: 

“It's too sad, too cruel,” I cried. 

“Oh, lady! Please don’t cry so hard,” begged a 
humorous voice above me. 

I choked my sobs and looked up in an agony of shame. 

The blond head of a man was thrust comically over 
the thread cases, his blue eyes regarding me worriedly, 
intently. 

As he caught sight of my face, the concern changed to 
delight. 

4 ‘Why, hello, Gretchen! I’m Jake Frazer—you prob¬ 
ably don’t remember me, though.” 

6< Oh, yes,” I denied composedly, without cordiality. 

“But, I say, you were crying. Can I help you?” he 
offered. 

He still looked the sort of person who would laugh 
at one, I decided, though in no other respect did he 
resemble the fat, freckly little boy I remembered. 

“No, thank you,” I replied guardedly. “Is there some¬ 
thing for you to-day?” 

He looked baffled, as if this reserve was something to 
which he was unaccustomed. 

“I wanted some walking boots,” he admitted slowly, 
“but ...” 

“Father is at lunch,” I told him primly, “but I can 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 55 

show you what we have . . . he’ll be back in a few 
minutes. 5 ’ 

It was a quarter past one. 

Jake professed himself delighted with our selection of 
high boots. 

During their examination he kept up a rapid fire of 
talk to which I replied in polite monosyllables. 

I recognized a fundamental difference, and yet, his 
manner was reminiscent of the traveling salesmen’s. There 
was an assurance, an undercurrent of banter which dis¬ 
concerted me, accustomed as I was to the literalness of my 
fellow-townsmen. 

Marion’s indictment of him as wild seemed probable. 

Quite definitely, I felt that I disliked him. 

That his puzzled glance strayed occasionally to my 
reddened eyes did not help to diminish my chagrin and 
embarrassment. 

When father entered, I turned over my customer to him 
and retired abruptly to the opposite side of the store. 

“Idiot,” I groaned in a savage undertone. 

“Idiot! As if it wasn’t enough to bellow like a calf, I 
have to make a worse fool of myself by calling out all 
sorts of silly things !” 

I pushed Tess into the ignominious obscurity of a 
drawer of remnants. 

“Come in again, sir,” I heard father’s silky voice saying 
at the door. 

“You can just bet I will,” the other replied in accents 
odiously hearty. 


56 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


His glance sought mine over father’s head. Jake was 
very tall. 

“I’ll be needing all sorts of things,” he said looking 
straight at me. 

I stared back coldly. 

“Glad to see you at any time,” father assured him 
suavely. 

But I told myself he would not find me so suave! 

IV 

After this, hardly a day passed that Jake did not enter 
the store on some pretext or other. Moreover, he came 
at the noon hour when father was away and there were 
few or no customers. 

This annoyed me, as it meant that my reading suffered. 
For once inside the door Jake was immovable as Gibraltar 
until twenty-five minutes past one. 

“You mustn’t come here any more at this time,” I told 
him finally in despair. “If you really want to buy things, 
can’t you wait until father is here?” 

“If I really want to buy things,” he echoed reproach¬ 
fully. “Have I ever entered this mart of trade without 
departing heavily laden?” 

It was true. But I did not remind him that even my 
unsophistication could detect his abysmal indifference to 
the purchases he made. 

I never failed to greet him with the stereotyped: 

“Something for you to-day?” 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


57 


This was meant to indicate that I regarded his visits 
merely as business occurrences. 

Sometimes his reply to this question was amusingly 
vague. So much so that on one occasion after he had been 
coming for two or three weeks, I suggested with satirical 
intent that we had just received a remarkably attractive 
lot of gingham aprons in which he might be interested. 

Jake beamed delightedly. 

“Just what I’m here for! You witch, how did you 
guess? Phronsie told me this morning that if I failed to 
bring home some aprons for her I need never hope for 
another pie. Give me four—large ones—Phronsie’s fat. 
Funny how most good cooks are fat!” 

In a disapproving silence I wrapped up four—large 
ones, and handing them over the counter, received his 
assurance that there was “nothing else.” 

With that I turned away. 

My pointed rudeness only seemed to increase Jake’s 
persistence. 

“Aren’t you going to talk to me?” he cried in conster¬ 
nation. 

“I haven’t time—I’m reading.” 

“Oh, Guinevere,” (he had dubbed me thus at our third 
meeting) “you, in a stuffy store, wrapped up in a stuffy 
book! It’s—unnatural!” 

“If you find the store stuffy,” I began. 

“Not at all—on the contrary,” he hastened to add. “My 
remark was wholly—er—allegorical. But aren’t you 
afraid of ruining your eyes . . . ?” 

“My eyes are very strong.” 


58 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


A wicked twinkle appeared in his. “But hadn’t you been 
reading that first day I came,” he asked innocently. I 
chose to ignore the implication and remained silent. 

“Do you like books so much, Guinevere?” he persisted. 

I nodded. 

“Will you let me send you some poetry—you like 
poetry, don’t you now?” 

“I don’t know,” I replied slowly, my interest at last 
aroused. “I’ve never read any.” 

He was honestly astounded. 

“Never read any poetry,” he cried. “Why, lambkin, 
we must remedy that without a moment’s delay. I’ll send 
you some luscious volumes. . . . Though I suppose I’ll 
only be cutting my throat, as you’ll never talk to me 
then.” 

I thought of the salesmen who had urged me to accept 
gifts from them. 

“I can’t let you give me books,” I refused icily. 

“But why, that’s silly,” he disposed of my objection. 
“Won’t you even let me lend you some,” he went on as I 
made no answer. 

My independence and distrust struggled with my 
eagerness. 

“If you want to, you may lend me some books,” I 
conceded grudgingly at last. 

“That’s almost as good,” he admitted, disappointed. 

“And you won’t come in again when father is away, will 
you?” I pleaded. 

“But I never get a word with you when the old fruit 
is here,” he complained. 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


59 


“Do you want people talking about me?” I demanded. 
“Mr. Berman always comes out of his store when you stop 
here—and he grins at me in the most awful way when I 
meet him on the street.” 

Jake flew into a rage that I later learned was char¬ 
acteristic. For like most men of a certain kind of 
impulsive generosity he became blindly furious when his 
motives were impugned, when an outside influence seemed 
likely to interfere with the attaining of his desires. 

The veins in his neck swelled alarmingly. The child¬ 
like fairness of his skin was suffused with dark red. 

“The filthy brute,” he cried in a choked, incoherent 
voice. “If he dares to insinuate things about you, if he 
so much as dares to look at you, I’ll kill him like I would 
a snake!” 

“I’ve no doubt you could demolish poor Mr. Berman 
with one tap of your knuckles,” I replied coldly, “but that 
would not cause the gossip to stop.” 

He glared at me for a moment. 

“All right—then I’ll stay away.” 

He left without another word, and in such haste that 
the aprons were forgotten. 

Nor did he appear next day, but when I went home to 
dinner I found a big package on the front porch. 

Jake had not forgotten. 

In the package were a dozen volumes of poetry—* 
Shelley, Keats, Wordsworth, Kipling, Herrick, Whitman, 
Swinburne, Browning, translations of Heine, Verlaine and 
one from the Japanese. Although his name was carefully 
written on each flyleaf, the “new” smell of the books and 


60 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


the multitude of uncut leaves convinced me that they 
were bought for the sole purpose of giving me pleasure. 

My hands flew over each book in turn, but it was the 
Whitman which I first opened, because the name was 
unknown to me: 

Out of the rolling ocean the crowd came a drop gently to me. 

Whispering, I love you, before long I die, 

I have travelTd a long way merely to look on you, to touch 
you. 

For I could not die till I once look’d on you, 

For I feared I might afterward lose you. . . . 

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable. I sound 
my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world. . . . 

I turned a few pages. 

Out of the cradle endlessly rocking, 

Out of the mocking-bird’s throat, the musical shuttle. 

Out of the Ninth-month midnight. 

The magic of the song constricted my throat, reared my 
eyes with unshed tears. 

Oh, rising stars! 

Perhaps the one I want so much will rise—will rise with 
some of you. 

As I put down the book, I knew that I liked poetry. I 
knew, too, that the intangible wall between me and Jake 
was fallen—some element of defensiveness was gone from 
my attitude. I was neither glad, nor sorry. 

I was touched by his kindness—compunctious at having 
ordered him from the store. 

But my regrets were wasted. 



WINDOWS FACING WEST 


61 


Next day the blue roadster drew up in its usual place 
promptly at a quarter past twelve. 

Jake entered, gaily confident on the surface, but with a 
certain uneasiness apparent to my eyes. 

“I wanted a cherry pie, oh, Guinevere, and I’d forgot¬ 
ten those aprons,” he made thin explanation. 

“Poetry is . . . marvelous,” I said, ignoring his 
apology. 

“Do you like it really?” 

I had never known a person could put such delight into 
five words. 

“I came today to tell you a plan I’ve thought out,” he 
went on hurriedly without waiting for my answer. 

“You don’t want me to come here, and I can understand 
why, so won’t you let me come to call on you in the even¬ 
ings—some evening,” he amended. 

I had a sickening vision of this Balder-like creature in 
my stiff, bare parlor. It was too incongruous. 

I laughed and slowly shook my head. 

“But, why, Guinevere? Do I bore you?” 

I thought of Marion’s oft-repeated inquiry when I de¬ 
clined to let the town boys call. 

“But, why, Gretchen, don’t you like men?” 

Marion had been having “dates” for two years, and for 
this reason gave herself airs in my presence. She re¬ 
garded it as her duty to bring me out. My refusal to 
adopt her excellent advice was not due to shyness, as 
she supposed. How could I tell her that the pimply, 
pompous youths who rushed her, inspired in me nothing 
more than a horrified loathing? 


62 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


Jake was different. But there were equally good rea¬ 
sons why I did not want him to come to my home. One 
who has lived not unhappily in dreams always shrinks from 
actuality, I think. 

“No, you don’t bore me.” 

“Then why?" 

I could not answer him. 

With an impatient gesture he turned to go. At the 
door he stopped and came back. 

“Give me half a dozen men’s handkerchiefs—linen,” he 
requested in a voice saturated with gloom. 

But neither of us thought of laughing. 


V 

A week passed and Jake did not return to the store. 

I found that I missed him. 

His was the happiest nature I had ever known. 

He was all irrepressible gaiety, all frankness, generosity 
—all delight in life. No wonder our serious-minded, cal¬ 
culating little town distrusted him. 

The society of my father and Marion seemed intoler¬ 
able now. I could not read. 

I rebelled against the hard monotony of my life. For 
the first time I neglected the house. 

One Friday evening I went wearily to my room. The 
dishes were washed, the kitchen in order, the table laid 
for breakfast. 

It was very hot. 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


63 


The weight of my hair oppressed me. My clothes clung 
stickily to my body. 

I drew off my dark dress and scant underclothing and 
loosened the coils of my hair. As I turned from the 
bureau, my eye fell on a calendar .... July. 

This month nine years ago, Lagi had visited me. This 
month nine years ago, father had given me the savage 
beating. Would I never forget? 

“Slave driver,” I cried, shaking my fist at the closed 
door, “stingy tyrant—wife murderer!” 

The complacent, oblivious creak of his chair on the 
front porch came faintly in reply. There he sat and 
computed costs and savings—sleek, content! 

I threw myself across the bed and wept hot tears of 
self-pity, for the first time since mother died. 

But I was too healthy to continue that sort of thing 
indefinitely. 

After a few moments I went into the bathroom and 
drew a tub of cold water. In its greenish depths my fa¬ 
tigue lessened and my jagged nerves composed themselves. 
I so far recovered as to take a melancholy pleasure in 
the sight of my pale body lapped about with green rip¬ 
ples, and the strange, one-dimensional appearance of my 
hands under water. 

In a fine glow, I stepped out into the hall, just as an 
automobile stopped before our gate. 

“Good evening, sir, is Gretchen in,” asked Jake impetu¬ 
ously. 

Father was bewildered. 


64 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


“Why—er—yes, I believe she is. Won’t you step in and 
have a seat?” 

I waited to hear no more but ran to my room and 
began dressing feverishly. 

When I descended the stairs, father and Jake were 
discussing crops. But a bewildered light was apparent 
in father’s eye. 

“Hello, Gretchen, can you come for a ride with me?” 

“Hello, Jake, yes, I’d love to,” I replied with disarm¬ 
ing readiness. 

“Good evening, sir,” said Jake to father. 

“We’ll be back soon,” I told him. 

He waved his long hand benignantly, but the bewildered 
look remained. 

I went exulting. 

The blue car ran fast, and close to the ground. We 
went perhaps five miles without a word. Then suddenly 
Jake stopped the machine and seized both my hands in 
his. 

“My God, how I’ve missed you, Guinevere,” he cried. 

But I was shy of lovemaking. Although my mind had 
been familiar with love for a long time, my body involun¬ 
tarily shrank from any advances. 

“I’ve missed you too,” I told him inadequately, loosen¬ 
ing my hands. 

He gazed at me oddly through the growing dusk. 

Without another word, he started the engine and we 
went back, silent as we had come. 

The house was unlighted. On the porch glowed the end 
of father’s nightly cigar. 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


65 


‘Tomorrow,” Jake whispered as we stopped. 

“No I have to stay at the store until late.” 

“Sunday?” 

I nodded imperceptibly. 

“Sunday afternoon.” 

He left me at the steps. 

“Good night, Mr. May,” he called towards the glowing 
cigar end. 

“Good night, sir,” father returned affably enough. 

The red light of the roadster sped swiftly up the dark 
street—disappeared. 

I turned to go in. 

“Ah, Gretchen, sit down a minute,” father stopped me. 

I remained standing. 

“What is it,” I asked. 

“I don’t care to have you going out alone with that 
young fellow—he’s no particular good—Don’t let it hap¬ 
pen again.” 

The tiny coal glowed brightly as he finished. 

For a moment resentment held me speechless. 

“I shall go out with whomever I please,” I retorted 
coldly at last. 

“Not if I forbid you!” 

“Especially if you forbid me.” 

Father rose hastily and towered threateningly over me. 
But the era of effective bullying was past. 

“What are you saying, miss?” he demanded. 

“Exactly what you hear,” I replied. 

We faced each other for a long moment—two defiant 
wills. Then he turned away. 


66 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


Here was a fact not contained in the Encyclopedia of 
Useful Knowledge—and he was helpless in the face of it. 


VI 

That drive marked the beginning of our close compan¬ 
ionship. Almost every evening the blue roadster stopped 
at our gate; on Sundays Jake and I were together after¬ 
noon and evening. 

With his admirable capacity for adjusting himself to the 
inevitable, father accepted the situation calmly. There 
was a curt admonition to the effect that my salary would 
be cut if there was any perceptible lessening of efficiency 
on my part, but this did not worry me. Also: “See that 
you don’t get talked about,” he told me, “it would hurt 
my position.” 

My years of Spartan training now stood me in good 
stead. Without them my health must have broken under 
the strain of cruelly hard work, comparatively late hours, 
and constant excitement. 

For Jake’s society was very heady. It was a stimulant 
which made me forget any weariness, however great. He 
would affix a postage stamp to a letter with an enthusiasm 
sufficient to lead a rebel army to victory. The present 
moment was the most important consideration in life. He 
was bent on extracting every ounce of enjoyment from it. 

He was full of plans. Sometimes he would come burst¬ 
ing into the store on a busy morning, each blond hair 
on his head quivering with life, and stand waiting his 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


67 


turn—patiently enough, but bristling with a suppressed 
excitement which conveyed itself to me and made me pain¬ 
fully nervous. 

Then he would buy whatever was nearest at hand and 
over the counter propose some vital scheme or other. 

“Don’t eat much dinner tonight, oh, Guinivere,” he 
urged on one of these occasions, “because Phronsie has 
made ready a lunch fit for the gods, and you and I will 

feast by moonlight at the edge of the lake.eight- 

thirty, sharp!” 

After a more than usually hectic rush with dinner and 
dishes, I slipped on a new dress (I had begun to spend 
money recklessly) and was ready for Jake when he came. 

We drove to the lake and stopped the car within a few 
feet of the shallow ripples that splashed on its shore. 

Jake pointed to the opposite side. 

“Over there, Guinevere,” he began in a tone myste¬ 
riously hushed, “the moon will rise and make a shining 
path across the lake for us. Would you like to walk 
with me to the moon? Perhaps she’ll make twin stars 
of us—you, a gorgeous, coppery planet, and I a pale 
yellow satellite. Or we might rather live in the moon— 
do you think they have stores in the moon, Guinevere?” 

“They say the dark spots are mountain ranges,” I re¬ 
plied in all seriousness. 

Jake’s laughter rang out. 

That was the worst of it. I never could tell when he 
meant what he said and when it was just banter. 

“You’re too innocent for Guinevere, I think I shall call 
you Elaine,” he teased me. 



68 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


The moon rose and, as Jake had predicted, a wide 
crinkly gold pathway led straight from us to her. 

“How would you like to sail along there in a snow 
white barge—all dead, and covered with lilies, Guinevere ?” 

“I don’t know about the barge,” I replied, “but, if I 
were ever to kill myself, I think I’d plunge into moon¬ 
lit water as the most romantic way.” 

“If you could wait for the moon . . . ! Don’t 
do it, child, the water’s just as cold under moonlight.” 

He broke off abruptly. 

“What are we waiting for?” 

The big basket was brought out and unpacked. 

“Now for the big treat,” Jake exclaimed when that 
was done. He rummaged in a pocket of the car and 
brought forth a long-necked bottle and two glasses. 

I watched him in consternation. 

“Have you ever tasted champagne, Guinevere?” 

“Oh, Jake, then you do drink,” I cried sorrowfully. 

“Only on special occasions,” he assured me, “and this 
is a very Special occasion.’ ” 

I refused to be mollified. 

“I don’t want any,” I told him. 

“But, my dear, it’s nothing but wine. It won’t make 
a surly wife-beater out of an honest workingman!” 

“You drink other things, too, don’t you, Jake?” 

“Sometimes.” 

I turned and walked away from him along the edge of 
the lake. 

He came after me, and catching my elbows turned me 
about so that I faced him. 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


69 


“Does it honestly make you so unhappy,” he asked 
looking intently at me. 

I nodded. 

“Terribly.” 

“Then, God knows, if you really care that much, I’ve 
no right to do it—do you care . . . dear?” 

“It frightens me—drinking,” I sobbed. 

“Then, I’ll never, never again,” Jake promised solemnly. 
“Never again. . . . Kiss me, Guinevere. I love you so!” 

“Tell you what,” Jake said presently, “suppose we 
each take a tiny glassful to celebrate,” he kissed me again 
joyously, “and then throw the rest of the bottle out into 
the lake!” 

“You’re sure it won’t make me feel funny,” I hesitated. 

“Not a bit—make you feel serious and act funny!” 

But I knew this was meant to tease me. 

We touched glasses. 

“Never again,” he groaned. 

“Never again,” I echoed, but happily. 

The half-empty bottle hung between us and the moon, 
dipped, disappeared under the water in a spray of glinting 
drops. 

Jake spoke its epitaph, with uncovered head. 

“Mumms Extra-dry,” he said reverently. 

YII 

Bit by bit Jake wormed out of me an account of my 
duties. It was hard to withhold because I so often gave 
work as my excuse for not falling in with his plans. 


70 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


“What do you do—besides stay in the store—now tell 
me, like a good girl,” he begged one day. 

I was too tired to resist. My pride was napping. 

Beginning with my six-thirty, alarm clock awakening, 
I gave him an outline of a typical day in my life. 

Jake sat crouched over the steering wheel of the blue 
roadster. During my recital he neither spoke nor moved, 
except to grip the wheel more tightly at times. 

“But, Gretchen, your father has money,” he burst out 
wonderingly when I had finished. “Why, even when I was 
a kid, I used to hear Dad speak of him as one of the 
solidest men in town.” 

I had no reply to this. 

“The God-damned old miser! . . . Oh, I beg your 
pardon, darling, I forgot.” 

“You needn’t apologize,” I said without emotion, “I 
hate him. He beat me once.” 

“Oh, God, oh, my darling! By God, I’ll kill him, 
sweetheart!” 

His face was drained of color, the big veins of his 
neck showed purple above his low collar. He was trem¬ 
bling so violently that my own nerves vibrated in response. 

“It’s no use .... they’d only kill you afterwards.” 

“I don’t care. It’s worth it!” 

He jammed in the clutch and the roadster leapt for¬ 
ward. 

“Stop, Jake and let me talk to you,” I begged, panicky 
with fear. “Think of me—just for this once.” 

“I am,” he retorted grimly, but he reluctantly brought 
the car to a stop. 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


71 


“You’re not! Do you think I want to be the cause of 
my father’s death, and yours? E^en if it didn’t come to 
that, there’d be a nasty scandal. . . .You can’t do 
anything, dear—anything at all.” 

“If I can’t kill him, it’ll kill me,” he groaned. ^The— 
the—the old ghoul! Oh, Gretchen! He struck you!” 

Abruptly he bent over the wheel and gave way to dry, 
terrible sobbing. 

I tried to comfort him. 

“It was long ago, dear—don’t, please don’t, Jake!” 

His shoulders continued their spasmodic heaving. 

“Jake, don’t you see that I can’t ever tell you anything, 
if you’re going to act like this.” 

He raised his head suddenly and struck the side of the 
car a great blow with his fist. 

“By God, there is something I can do! I can marry 
you and take you out of it!” 

I sat without breathing. Here was an escape I had not 
thought of—at least, had thought of as possible only in 
some dim future. 

“We’ll be married before I go back to Cornell—and 
you can stay here with mother and Phronsie until I gradu¬ 
ate—mother’ll love you, Gretchen.” 

I thought of the stiff, black-clad figure of Mrs. Frazer, 
of our constrained conversation when we met in the store. 

“Do you think so?” I asked dubiously. 

“Do I? Why she’s bound to. She loves me and I love 
her and I love you and you love me. . . . You and she 
have too much in common not to be congenial!” 

He was growing more and more enthusiastic. 


72 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


<c Why haven’t I thought of it before! Please say you’ll 
marry me, Guinevere. ... I want you so!” 

“I love you,” I replied. 

He drew me into his arms and kissed my eyes and lips 
and throat. 

“Father mustn’t know,” I warned. 

Jake laughed gleefully, with a quick change of mood. 
The savage fury of a moment before had given place to a 
boyish maliciousness. 

“We’ll cost the old skinflint a pretty penny yet. . . . 
Prices have gone up, Mr. May! . . . He’ll soon be 
spending more than fourteen a week for his clerk, cook, 
housekeeper!” 

VIII 

I settled the last drapery of my lace evening dress— 
gave a quick dab at my nose with a powder puff and 
turned, satisfied, from the mirror. 

Marion watched me appreciatively from her seat on 
the bed. 

“Well, I must say, Gret, that when you did start you 
started with a bang,” she remarked. 

I smiled in a preoccupied fashion. 

“Does my dress hang right?” 

“It’s gorgeous; you look stunning, simply stunning,” 
she replied wholeheartedly. “I know now why you’d 
never be bothered with the boys here—you were waiting 
for bigger game, sly dog!” 

“No I wasn’t, honestly, Marion,” I protested, unwill- 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


73 


ing to accept this implication of snobbishness, “but there’s 
something about Jake that’s .... different!” 

“Well, I should hope so,” she agreed, rising languidly. 
“They say he can drink more liquor to his size than any 
man in New York state.” 

“It’s a lie,” I cried heatedly, “he doesn’t drink—any 
more!” 

“Why—have you reformed him?” 

She laughed knowingly. 

“Remember, my dear, that you can’t change a man’s 
nature overnight, nor in three months, either. Besides, 
you couldn’t tell if he had been drinking.” 

I felt that I hated Marion then. Her smug, confident 
attitude of patronage enraged me more than I ever 
dreamed it could. 

“I’d be more likely to know than you, at any rate, 
since I’m with him somewhat more often,” I retorted 
frigidly. 

She looked at me in surprise. 

“Why, Gret, I didn’t know you were in love with him!” 

“Well, I am!” 

Marion sat down abruptly. 

“My dear! How exciting! Why didn’t you tell me 
before. . . . Are you going to be married?” 

“In the fall.” 

“Oh, Gret, I’m simply overcome, I never . . .” 

The honk of an automobile cut short her exclamations. 

“Heavens, there he is. I must fly, I look such a sight. 
No, you go on, and I’ll leave after you’ve got him out of 
the way.” 


74 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


She gave me a quick squeeze and, throwing a light wrap 
about my shoulders, pushed me out of the door. 

“Come over and tell me all about it tomorrow,” she 
whispered. 

I nodded and ran down the stairs. 

Jake was beating a tattoo on the porch floor with an 
impatient foot. 

“I thought you were never coming, sweetheart,” he 
greeted me. “Mother’s out in the car.” 

Jake had persuaded me to go to a dance at a country 
club some miles away. I had agreed, to please him. The 
presence of his politely formal mother was a concession 
to convention which we dismally decided would have to be 
made. 

Jake had never seen me in evening clothes before. When 
I came out of the dressing room with his mother he looked 
at me as if for the first time. 

“Isn’t she divine, mother,” he demanded eagerly. 

“Gretchen is very pretty indeed,” Mrs. Frazer conceded 
with a smile which did not succeed in conveying cordiality. 

“Pretty,” he scoffed, “she’s the best-looking girl in 
forty-eight states.” 

“I’m so proud of you, Guinevere,” he whispered, as Mrs. 
Frazer turned away to speak to an acquaintance. 

He swung me out on the crowded floor to the wailing 
strains of a new waltz. 

I thought with scorn of my father. What a mean mind 
he had! When I told him that I meant to go to this dance 
and that he would have to get someone to work for me 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


75 


(it was Saturday), all he said was: “It’ll cost you two 
dollars.” 

“What do I care for two dollars,” I retorted grandly. 

“Well, well,” he said jocularly, “hoe your own row, 
my dear, but you’ll learn some day that a dollar com¬ 
mands respect.” 

Two dollars for this . . . ! The rhythm of the dance, 
the music rising and falling, Jake’s arm about me. I was 
half-dazed with sensation. 

Jake, too, had become more joyous, more alive. His 
eyes whenever they rested on me seemed to plead—com¬ 
mand ! 

We left at twelve. Mrs. Frazer had a headache. 

“Make him come straight home, Gretchen,” she said as 
she left us at her door. She shook her finger playfully at 
me. “I know how young people are!” 

IX 

“No, Jake, you mustn’t kiss me,” I protested in a whis¬ 
per as he seized my hands to draw me towards him. 

He looked at me sombrely. 

“What’s the matter?” 

“It’s late—and you know what your mother said— 
besides, father may not be asleep.” 

“It won’t take but a second,” he made answer to my ob¬ 
jections. 

I sighed. 

“You know, Jake, that if you kiss me, it will be half an 
hour before I can get you home.” 


76 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


“I never could understand why girls have such a poor 
opinion of themselves,” he remarked to no one in particu¬ 
lar. 

But I was not to be ridiculed out of my determination. 

“Think what you please,” I told him indifferently, “so 
long as you go now.” 

“Why are you so cold sometimes, Guinevere? Last 
night you loved me, and tonight you don’t care a damn.” 

“I love you just as much, but I can’t always act the 
same.” 

“I do.” 

I made no reply. Jake stood in pale moonlight at the 
foot of the steps and looked up at me. He was so beauti¬ 
ful, so gloriously alive! It was not easy to keep my 
resolution. 

“Guinevere,” he called as if from a great distance, 
magically. “Guinevere—you are so beautiful!—Guine¬ 
vere—come out and dance with me!” 

His voice laid a queer spell on my will. Unconsciously 
my foot moved down a step .... drew back. 

“You’re not a woman, but a dryad, Guinevere, and I 
am Pan!” 

He leaned forward, a quick daring in face and voice. 

“Guinevere, I dare you to take off your dress and 
dance under the moon with me!” 

I quivered as if I had been struck. I felt my eyes grow 
dark with emotion. Mother’s voice sounded in my brain, 
that usually plaintive voice now energized with indigna¬ 
tion. 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


77 


“The common little beast . . . the common little 
beast!” 

Father, calm and collected, stalking purposefully from 
the house. . . . 

Jake was watching my face intently. 

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, darling,” he cried remorse¬ 
fully now. “I only meant that you’re too beautiful to be 
hidden under clothes!” 

“You said that to me once before,” I told him with 
painful slowness, “when I was a little girl. . . . Oh, 
you’re dirty , Jake!—you’ve always been dirty! Go away 
and don’t ever come back here.” 

“Was that you?” Jake asked, staring at me amazed. 
Then: 

“You don’t mean that you would hold against me what 
I said when I was a kid,” he blurted out incredulously. 
“Besides,” he hurried on, ignoring my attempted inter¬ 
ruption, “your father got me suspended from school for 
a year—isn’t that punishment enough?—Everybody says 
I’m wild .... well, maybe I am. But don’t you think 
I got a pretty good start when I had to stay at home all 
one year and had people asking why, and suspecting the 
worst about me? You’ve never been a social pariah—it 
isn’t pleasant. I’d see boys my age going to school every 
morning and me left with nothing to do but think up 
devilment. Did you ever realize that? You hurt me 
worse than I hurt you—I didn’t know I was saying any¬ 
thing criminal that day. It was just my way of telling 
you I thought you were pretty.” 


78 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


His words came tumbling over each other—pleas, ex¬ 
planations, denials. 

How far had my mother’s smug righteousness, my 
father’s caution influenced this man before me? What 
would have been different if either of them had displayed 
a gleam of sane reason? And I was the indirect 
cause . . . .! 

Jake saw that I was won. 

“So now we’re quits about that, aren’t we, dearest?” 

“You weren’t to blame—I’m sorry,” I told him. 

“Then kiss and make up—and I’ll dash home!” 

All softened, regretful, I leaned towards him. 

“Sweetheart,” he whispered close to my face. 

Even now I can recall the thrill of horrified repulsion 
which shot through me as I caught the stale, unmistakable 

I 

smell of alcohol on his breath. Wrenching my hands 
loose, I struck him across the eyes with all my strength. 

“You—you—drunkard,” I gasped. “Oh, what a fool 
I am! I might have known! You needn’t explain—you 
can’t explain when you fairly reek of whiskey.” 

“I’m not drunk,” he denied furiously. “If I can’t take 
a cocktail without your throwing a fit, I’ll go out and 
show you what a drunkard looks like!” 

“Oh, no, you won’t because I shan’t look. Now go 
home and don’t come back here again . . . ever! Do 
you understand?” 

Jake was pale with rage. When he spoke it was evident 
that he controlled himself only by a tremendous effort 

ofwm - J:ll3 




WINDOWS FACING WEST 


79 


“Listen, Gretchen, if you send me away like this, before 
God I mil get drunk !” 

But if he was angry, so was I. 

“Get drunk. You’re probably glad of an excuse. Do 
what you like. But I’m through standing by and being 
lied to and approving while you go to the devil.” 

I slammed the door and went weeping to my room. 

I have never found a convincing explanation for my 
puritanical attitude that night. Since then, I have had 
wines and liquors. More than once, I have had—too 
much. True, drunken men are still distasteful to me, but 
Jake was not drunk. I often wonder if it was really my¬ 
self who railed at him so. Perhaps for one moment my 
mother’s watchful ghost took possession of me and di¬ 
rected matters to its satisfaction. Perhaps, her early 
teaching evidenced itself in a last flare of passionate in¬ 
tolerance. Perhaps, my hurt vanity took revenge in this 
way for his having lied to me ... I do not know. 

Then, I did not analyze. I only wept. But it was late 
and I was very tired. Soon my unhappiness was blotted 
out in a deep slumber. 

Once in my dreams I thought I heard the shriek of the 
blue roadster’s horn as it tore past, but the impression 
was not sufficiently vivid to waken me. 

X 

Father in his Sunday black carefully scraped the tiny 
deposit of sugar from his coffee cup, licked the spoon and 
replaced it on the saucer. 


80 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


Breakfast was over. 

“I have some bad news for you, my dear,” he said 
measuredly, directing a quick glance at me. 

My heart gave a great, sickening throb, seemed to stop. 

“Young Frazer had a nasty smash-up near the lake 
last night—the car was splintered. They’ve taken him 
to the hospital. Wonder he’s not dead l” 

—I too am untamed—Oh, lady, please don’t cry so 
hard—You’re beautiful, Guinevere—Listen, Gretchen, I 
am Pan—The—the old ghoul!— 

Over and over and over. No order in my mind. Jake’s 
face, his words, his laugh. “Wonder he’s not dead!” 

“Oh, no,” I said dazedly, with conviction. “Jake 
couldn’t die.” 

Father looked at me queerly. 

“There’s not a dozen whole bones in his body—inter¬ 
nal injuries too. He was pinned under the car when 
they found him. Nobody can make out how it happened. 
He must ha’ been drunk—there was an empty liquor 
bottle . . .” 

With a terrible scream I flung my water glass to the 
floor. 

“Stop it! Stop it, I say—You, you old ghoul!” 

“Well, there’s no use in breaking up the dishes and 
abusing me. If you’d listened to me, I warned you against 
him. . . .” 

But I was gone. Like a wounded animal I crept to the 
solitude of my room. 

I understood why Christ went alone to Gethsemane. 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


81 


XI 

Mrs. Frazer’s voice came pleadingly, helplessly over 
the ’phone. 

“You must, Gretchen. He’s asked for you.” 

“I can’t. I can’t. Don’t ask me.” 

“He’s dying, Gretchen!” 

“Oh, God, I can’t!” 

“My poor boy—my poor boy-” 

“Tell him I love him.” 

“Love him!” Her voice was acid with scorn. “You 
who won’t even come to help him die.” 

It would kill me. I can’t,” I wailed despairingly. 

“Oh, God will punish you—you hard-hearted girl, you, 
you Jezebel!” 

The receiver slammed down. 

Let them think me hard. What did it matter! Jake 
was dying. I could not bear to distort my memories of 
him with the picture of his strong body shattered and 
bandaged—the agony of his battle with death. Without 
my memories I could not live. Why, if Jake could die 
there was an end to everything. Nothing could hope 
to escape. 

I could not weep. I tried to pray, but I felt that he 
would hate the mockery as I did. There was no God. 

All day I sat in my room. No one disturbed me. 
Night came, and the sky was studded with a multitude of 
stars. I went to bed with a lighted candle beside me (I 
could not bear the dark) and lay sleepless watching 
the sky. 



82 WINDOWS FACING WEST 

Towards morning a fresh breeze arose. It billowed 
out my curtains, twisted the candle flame. In the east, 
faint streaks of primrose and blue appeared. 

Something seemed to snap within my brain. 

Despair came flooding in. 

I knew that Balder was dead. 


BOOK THREE 


I 

“Here you are, Miss May. Can you let us have these 
before you leave?” 

I fingered the thick pile of O. K’d. orders for which I 
had waited all day, glanced at my wrist watch. It was 
four o’clock. 

The pale youth who was my immediate superior in the 
office twisted nervously from one foot to the other. 

“I know it’s late,” he admitted apologetically, “but 
this is rush stuff, and the chief didn’t get back from 
lunch until a few minutes ago to fix it up.” 

“I’ll stay and get them out,” I agreed, inwardly seeth¬ 
ing with resentment. 

On the right hand side of my desk were neat stacks of 
yellow paper, white paper, carbon paper. 

I picked up an order: Corday Mfg. Co. That called 
for two white copies, three yellow copies. My hands ar¬ 
ranged the paper swiftly, mechanically. Swiftly, mechan¬ 
ically, my fingers tapped out the bill. The procedure 
varied but slightly. Sometimes four white copies and 
two yellow copies were required; sometimes but one of 
each. This was not a matter for me to decide, however. 
Long ago a list of customers with the formula for each 
had been committed to memory. During my first week 

83 


84 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


with the Ardyle Company I had ventured to inquire what 
determined the number of copies to be made. The eva¬ 
siveness of my informers was exceeded only by their sur¬ 
prise at being questioned. 

“There’s a list on your desk,” replied the head steno¬ 
grapher, “if you forget, you can refer to it.” 

“Why, you see, we need more copies of some bills than 
we do of others,” my pallid superior explained lucidly. 

It appeared that a too intimate knowledge of business, 
as of God, was dangerous. 

The unpardonable sin was to arrive late. The first 
virtue was punctuality; the second, punctuality; the third, 
likewise. One might sit all day without work, but sit one 
must for eight hours. If work appeared on the seventh, 
one often had to sit for nine or ten. 

Even at my father’s store there had been nothing like 
this. He had demanded strict punctuality, but there was 
always something to do, so that his demand never ap¬ 
peared wholly unreasonable. 

One day the explanation occurred to me. I was selling 
not my services, but my time. I was bartering my very 
life in exchange for a pitiful sum of money. 

From that moment my discontent grew and grew. 

“Tap-tap-tap.” 

The pile was diminishing rapidly. I was not inefficient, 
even in work that I hated. 

A spirit of unrest was abroad in the big room. 

At desk after desk, girls sat idle, work done for the 
day—waiting for five o’clock. A few typewriters, like my 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


85 


own, were going furiously, but an air of expectancy—of 
release—prevailed. 

Miss Martin, the voluble file clerk, interrupted me with 
well-meaning sympathy. 

“It’s a shame old J. B. couldn’t have got that ready for 
you this morning.” 

“Yes—but he doesn’t have to stay until six o’clock to 
get it out,” I retorted, not ceasing my furious staccato. 

“Believe me, if I had to look forward to nothing but 
this, I don’t know how I’d stand it,” she went on. “It’s 
something fierce.” 

Miss Martin’s sentiments were my own, but I had no 
time to approve them unless I wished to prolong my work¬ 
ing day indefinitely, so I rebuffed her conversational 
efforts with non-committal monosyllables. It was an open 
secret that Miss Martin intended to work only until the 
end of the year when she was to be married—a consumma¬ 
tion to which she referred with unnecessary frequency. 

At five the room cleared as if by magic. I was left 
alone with my bills. 

Another hour passed before I closed my desk and de¬ 
posited a basketful of neatly typed slips in the private 
office. 

As I turned the corner on my way to the subway sta¬ 
tion, a raw March wind tore at my clothes, all but pulled 
the hat from my head. 

A truck driver whistled at me insolently; a middle-aged 
man, unperturbed by my icy disregard, kept step with 
me and cast furtive looks in my direction from time to 


86 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


time until he lost patience and went his way; boys on 
street corners made audible remarks as I passed. 

How I dreaded that twice-a-day agony! 


II 

Miss Martin’s attitude was typical of the girls in our 
big office. Business was for them an interlude—some¬ 
thing with which to occupy themselves until they should 
marry. There were exceptions, brisk women who passed 
in and out of glass doors marked “Private”—plain girls 
who flung themselves into their bookkeeping and type¬ 
writing and filing with utter abandonment. 

The lack of interest in their work seemed less the fault 
of the girls than of the system. There were clerks that 
would have made excellent gardeners—typists who en¬ 
joyed nothing more than rendering occasional first-aid. 
But they were all shot into business as a career that called 
for little preparation and consequently could be aban¬ 
doned without too much waste of money and training. 

Many of these girls were better educated than men 
who were their superiors. One stenographer, a Vassar 
graduate, took dictation from a high official of the com¬ 
pany who was incapable of writing correct English. 

For me, office routine, the complete absorption in detail, 
the magnifying of inconsequentialities, had been a god¬ 
send. It had enabled me to fight off the despair which 
had threatened to engulf me at Jake’s death. 

After that Sunday there was but one thought in my 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


87 


mind—to get away. To stay on with Jake dead was like 
living in a tomb. 

One day I found myself at the railroad station asking 
the price of a ticket to New York. The next day I drew 
a hundred dollars from the bank and left, without saying 
goodbye to anyone. It was a protective measure. I be¬ 
lieve that if I had remained in the store I should have lost 
my mind. 

The immensity, the strangeness of the city acted as an 
opiate. My senses became numbed as anaesthetized flesh. 

I spent my first night in JNTew York at a hotel for 
women. I remembered the name from a remark of Lagi’s 
many years before. 

“Mama and I always stop there,” she had added. “All 
nice women do. It’s very safe.” 

I wanted to be safe. 

One of the women in charge found a room for me next 
day. And within a week, she had ferreted out a position 
for me at Ardyle’s, I was through with stores ! 

It was due to her persuasions that I finally wrote my 
father—but not before I had been working for several 
weeks. 

His answer closed our correspondence. 

“You have made your own bed and now you must ex¬ 
pect to lie in it without any help from me. When you’ve 
discovered your mistake, you can come back to the store 
on the old basis.” 

Not “if”, but “when”! 

The possibility of retreating had not occurred to me, 


88 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


but, if it had, his complacence would have effectively pre¬ 
vented my doing so. 

I versus the world! 

It was a not unstimulating thought. 

For a year I went to the office promptly, unquestion- 
ingly .... glad to be part of a machine. At night I 
returned to my third floor room after a meagre dinner 
at a dairy restaurant, too tired for thought or regrets. 

But gradually I came back to my normal self. Again 
the old questioning began. Unlike the other girls with 
whom I worked, I did not look forward to marriage as 
an escape from the monotony of the office. My home life 
had planted in me a profound distrust of the institution. 
So definite an expectation would have been a relief. 

My Teachings out were without direction. My grop- 
ings were so vague as to produce nothing positive, only 
a colossal unrest within myself. I was teased by the very 
mystery of my desires. 

What I wanted, I could not tell—but I was convinced 
that this was not life, for me. 


m 

It was my custom to lunch at a restaurant some four 
blocks from the office. Here for a moderate price one 
could obtain sufficient food to produce the illusion of 
satisfaction. 

One day in April, however, Miss Martin came to work 
wearing a solitaire, and insisted that we should celebrate 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


89 


the appearance of this outward and visible sign by lunch¬ 
ing at a certain well-known hotel. 

“It will be my party,” she told me. 

But I had never learned to accept gracefully. I in¬ 
sisted on paying my share. 

To this she finally consented. 

Our request for an extra half-hour was granted and we 
boarded the subway with all the exhilaration of children 
setting out upon a wonderful adventure. 

I had come to like Miss Martin. She was so irrepres¬ 
sibly friendly. The lack of reserve in her manner had 
ceased to offend me to the same extent as it did at first. 
She reminded me a little of Marion—of a Marion minus 
the element of bigotry. Always too fastidious, I never 
became confidential with her, I was lonely and she was 
an amusing companion. 

But, if I withheld my confidence, Miss Martin did not. 
There was no phase of her life with which I was not fa¬ 
miliar. She even told me the amount of her salary. 

She brought endless kodak pictures of her fiance to the 
office and showed them to me, meanwhile watching my face 
eagerly to discover the effect produced. 

With the memory of Jake’s beauty fresh in my heart, I 
thought her little bank clerk a rather sorry specimen, 
but I was careful not to reveal a trace of this attitude in 
my expression. There was something pathetic in her 
happiness. I would not have hurt her for the world. 
That any one could be joyful at the prospect of exchang¬ 
ing desk for cookstove, a Brooklyn flat for a Harlem flat 
seemed preposterous to me. Apparently she conceived of 


90 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


marriage as the alchemy that would transmute the exis¬ 
tence for which she was preparing into some gorgeously 
tinted fairyland. 

Watching her and listening to her, I felt immeasurably 
older, though in fact this was not the case. A dozen 
times I was on the point of warning her that marriage 
might not “pan out” as she expected, hut something al¬ 
ways held me back. Perhaps I was restrained by a recog¬ 
nition of the futility of such a course; perhaps, by a 
realization that, lacking other resources, marriage was 
Miss Martin’s only bet—or it may have been that Jake’s 
death had produced in me an almost morbid fear of tam¬ 
pering with other people’s lives. 

On the way uptown Miss Martin chattered volubly. I 
listened to endless panegyrics on Dicky—Dicky’s clever¬ 
ness, his generousness, his success at the bank. Time 
after time, I had to admire the solitaire. 

“7 wanted platinum,” she confessed, “but Dicky is so 
sensible. He said ‘what’s the use of paying twice as 
much for a fad.’ ” 

“The gold is beautiful,” I assured her, “and you’ve said 
you didn’t like platinum wedding rings. This will look 
much better with a gold one.” 

“Yes, I guess you’re right,” she submitted, “but I did 
want platinum. . . . Men are so conservative, aren’t 
they?” 

“Some of them,” I agreed with bitterness. 

I had never been in a big hotel. As we entered the 
marble, palm-strewn lobby, I gasped in sheer astonishment 
at the spectacle of such luxury. 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


91 


To the right, open doors revealed the interiors of rooms 
sumptuously fitted with writing desks and tables and easy 
chairs. The floors were covered by thick velvet rugs, in 
color, a smoke grey. 

To the left, was a long vista of tables. 

Somewhere an orchestra played. 

A marvelous change had come over Miss Martin. I 
could hardly recognize in her my co-worker at Ardyle and 
Company’s. As she crossed the lobby to the dining room, 
her bearing was gracious, commanding. She indicated a 
table in a corner near the orchestra where we could talk 
freely without being overheard. The glassy-eyed head- 
waiter became just the least bit deferential. 

How I envied Miss Martin: I might feel superior in 
every other way, but some sub-stratum of honesty com¬ 
pelled me to admit that I could not have subdued that 
headwaiter as she did. 

Since then I have acquired the manner, but I have 
never out-lived an instinctive awe of those all but omnip¬ 
otent beings. There is a certain grim comprehension in 
their gaze that never fails to impress—and more or less 
disconcert—me. I think the Recording Angel must have 
something of a headwaiter’s look. 

Miss Martin perused the bill of fare with superficial 
indifference, but I was frankly interested. I wanted to 
order everything with French names to find out what they 
were. However, as I did not know how to pronounce them, 
I reluctantly confined my attention to the more intelligible 
items. 

If Miss Martin’s sophistication scored, my triumph was 


92 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


greater in another way. She called my attention to the 
fact. “You’re the hit of the meal,” she whispered laugh¬ 
ingly to me over the soup. 

I looked around, surprised. 

It was true that I was being stared at. 

Men with women companions stole stealthy looks at me 
between mouthfuls. Those who were alone, gazed openly. 

I hastily turned back to my food, hot with embarrass¬ 
ment. There had been something in the men’s eyes that 
confused me, in spite of my naive satisfaction at having 
created a sensation. At the time I did not realize what 
the disturbing element was in those glances. Since then, 
I have discovered that perhaps in no place does sex stalk 
more openly than in public dining rooms. 

Over the dessert, I noticed a short, heavy-set man cross¬ 
ing the room towards us. 

He paused at our table and spoke to me jocularly. 

“Want to be on the lot early tomorrow morning, Made¬ 
line,” he said. “We begin shooting at eight sharp.” 

I looked at him, too bewildered to be angry. Miss 
Martin stared in open-mouthed astonishment. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I protested. 

“Aw, go on,” he scoffed. “I ain’t joking. Sedgwick 
got the sets ready sooner than he expected. I been trying 
all morning to get you on the ’phone.” 

I looked from him to Miss Martin—back again—in 
search of a clue. 

“Say, you’re Madeline Montrose all right, ain’t you,” 
the stranger asked somewhat impatiently. 

“Oh, no . . . oh, no indeed,” I denied emphatically. 




WINDOWS FACING WEST 


93 


His swarthy face twisted into ludicrous lines of amaze¬ 
ment. 

“Well, I’m . . . My God, you must be! . . . Then 
you’re her double—voice and all. . . . Me, a director in 
her company! . . . In the profession?” 

I shook my head, only half understanding. 

“No, I’m not.” 

“Well. . . .You ought to be,” he shot out. “That’s a 
good one on me. . . . Good Lord!” 

With a last incredulous inspection of me, he turned and 
walked back abruptly to his own table. 

Miss Martin gave an ecstatic sign. 

“Wouldn’t that jar you?” she asked. 

“Who’s Madeline Montrose,” I wanted to know. 

“You mean to say. . . . Where do you come from, 
anyway?” she stammered. “Madeline Montrose is the 
International’s new star. Funny, I thought you looked 
like somebody I’d seen. Good Heavens, you must be the 
image of her, or one of her own directors wouldn’t have 
mistaken you for her ... I thought at first he was stall¬ 
ing (this is an awful place for pick-ups) but he was on 
the level. Aren’t you thrilled to death?” 

I shook my head. 

Miss Martin shrugged in good natured irritation. 

“You are the limit,” she cried. 

But my denial was true enough. I was not thrilled then. 

The significance of the incident did not occur to me 
until late that night. 

It was hot and I could not sleep. My bed was pushed 


94 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


up against the one window, but the air that drifted in was 
sultry—stale. 

Suddenly in the blackness of the room, I saw again the 
dark, heavy face of the International’s director—saw the 
appraising look with which he had surveyed me. 

“In the profession? .... Well, you ought to be!” 


IV 

I continued to regard my work at the office as drudg¬ 
ery, but no longer as drudgery from which there was no 
immediate escape. Those magic words had revealed to 
me a possibility which I had never considered before. 

The Screen—! My active imagination pictured the 
fil m star’s career as a sort of triumphal progress from 
success to success. The fabulous salaries, the adulation, 
the luxury with which they were surrounded made a tre¬ 
mendous appeal to my sensuous nature. The publicity 
worried me not a little. I think my instincts have always 
been aristocratic, and I could never face the possibility of 
seeing my name in print without feeling a surge of re¬ 
pulsion. The monstrous lithographic advertisements in 
front of motion picture theatres offended me even more— 
truly, those who succeeded paid a price. 

I had passed through my teens without one stage- 
struck tremor. Like many diseases, it seemed the more 
dangerous for coming late. 

I bought quantities of “movie” magazines. Every 
evening I recklessly squandered forty cents in indulging 
my newly acquired passion for the silent drama. I be- 



WINDOWS FACING WEST 


95 


came familiar with the stars—at least, the brighter stars 
—I learned their companies, and their plans, and their 
domestic difficulties. 

Still I took no step towards realizing my dream. 

The office was becoming more and more uninteresting. 
I now did my work mechanically, half-heartedly, with my 
mind on Gloria Glendon’s wardrobe, or Chappy Ranson’s 
hair-raising achievements. 

But the office was a known evil, at any rate; whereas, 
this business of acting was said to be fraught with a mul¬ 
titude of dangers which loomed larger because of their 
indefiniteness. 

There was one thing about which all the magazines were 
most emphatic. 

Gloria Glendon, it was true, made fifty thousand dollars 
a month—but Gloria had earned it, likewise the others. 

The magazines somewhat revised my ideas about the life 
of a star. But I was not discouraged. Indeed, the atti¬ 
tude which I now assumed was worse for me than my 
previous glorification of the profession. I faced all the 
unpleasant features and accepted them as being not too 
great to overbalance the advantages. Just as several 
years before I had accepted my father’s hard terms for an 
increase in salary. 

My decision once made, it is not strange that a few 
days later I found myself during lunch hour at the Inter¬ 
national’s studio. 

I stopped for a moment in front of the dingy brick 
building and gazed at the shining brass door plate. 

“International Photo-plays, Inc.” My throat tight- 


96 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


ened with emotion. Those doors were the entrance to 
the Promised Land. 

A man came out and stood on the steps lighting a cigar. 
He looked at me curiously. 

Overcome with shyness I hurried up the street. At the 
corner I turned. The man was gone. 

I nerved myself for a second try, retraced my steps and 
entered the awful portals. 

The door opened on a little hallway crossed by a wooden 
railing behind which sat a boy with slick black hair. As 
I came in he jumped up obsequiously and opened a swing¬ 
ing door in the railing. 

“Good morning, Miss Madeline,” he greeted me. 

“I’m not Miss Madeline,” was my answer as I passed 
through. 

The boy made an exaggerated bow. 

“Good morning, Miss Montrose he amended with 
mock humility, and hurried off to a door marked “Casting 
Director.” 

“Miss Montrose is here,” I heard him say. 

It was inconceivable, this being mistaken for another 
person. But, I told myself, there was no use explaining 
to the impudent, slick-haired boy. The casting director 
would know. 

“Go right in,” the boy invited me, returning to his seat 
behind the railing. 

The casting director was, unexpectedly, a woman—a 
business-like person with shrewd, tired eyes. 

“I didn’t expect you so early,” she said to me, “have 
a seat. What do you say to giving the Dupre girl the 



WINDOWS FACING WEST 


97 


part of your maid? She’s awfully pretty, of course, but 
such a different type that—” 

“I’m not Madeline Montrose,” I interrupted frantic¬ 
ally. 

44 You’re not .... What . . . .?” 

44 I told that boy I was not, but he didn’t believe me,” 
I defended myself. 

Her astonishment was no less real than had been that 
of the man who addressed me at lunch six weeks ago, but 
she concealed it better. 

“Then who are you, and what do you want?” 

44 My name is Gretchen May—and I want to get into 
pictures.” 

“Gretchen May what?” 

“Just Gretchen May .” 

“Real name?’” 

“Yes.” 

“Hm!” 

She considered for a minute, absently biting the end of 
a pencil. 

“There may be something next week—I’ll have to dis¬ 
cuss it with—several others. Can you come around on 
Monday? We’re not working this week.” 

“Oh, yes,” I agreed eagerly. 

“Now give me your address and telephone number.” 

She made entries in a big book. 

“Monday morning,” she reminded me again, with a last 
puzzled look. 

I left the studio in a glow of happiness. Those writers 



98 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


must have magnified difficulties considerably. It was easy 
to get in, I thought optimistically. 

Fd have to let my job go—one had to be ready when 
they called, or get left. I still had over three hundred 
dollars in the bank at home—the remainder of my savings. 
Since coming to New York I had been careful not to 
touch this little hoard. It was for an emergency. Now 
the emergency for which Fd looked forward so long had 
come. 

No more bills—no more eight hour days at work that 
I detested! 

Such sacrifices as I might make—and I told myself that 
no sacrifice was too great—would be made to advance me 
in a field which I had chosen to enter; not one into which 
I had been thrust by circumstances, against my will. 

I reached the office fifteen minutes late, saw with elation 
the suggestive look that my youthful boss directed to¬ 
wards the clock. 

I walked up to his desk and faced him squarely. 

“Fm leaving on Saturday,” I said briefly. 

He was disconcerted. I was a good billing-clerk. 

“Don’t you like it here?” he asked. 

“Oh, yes, very well—but I’ve had an offer of a better 
position.” 

He pondered for a while. 

“We’ve had you in mind, Miss May,” he said finally, 
“and have intended to push you right ahead as soon as 
openings occurred—It might be possible. . . . Would 
you stay for twenty-five a week?” 

This was a big advance. Twenty-five a week . . . 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


99 


sure money, against nebulous hundreds of thousands. . . . 
I was tempted. Security was dear to my soul, but the 
gambling instinct was even stronger. 

I shook my head decisively. 

“Fm sorry, but I can’t—thank you.” 

He looked affronted, as if I had offered him a personal 
insult. 

“Oh, very well,” he said loftily. 

The last bridge was burned. 


V 

During the days that intervened between my visit to 
the studio and the end of the week, I was far too busy 
to have time for any qualms as to the wisdom of the 
step I had taken. 

There was a new girl to be instructed in the details of 
my work—-various odds and ends to be cleared up. 

But on Saturday when I was leaving, the realization 
came sickeningly that my security was gone. Perhaps I 
could never again anticipate a definite sum each week 
perhaps I might fail utterly in my new undertaking and 
he reduced to the humiliating necessity of job hunting. 

I had not felt so footloose even when I had left home 
to come to New York. 

Miss Martin wept a little when I told her goodbye. 
She was a mercurial creature. 

“Please call me up when you get settled,” she begged, 
“and come to see me.” 


100 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


“I’d love to,” I promised her. 

But I never did. 

By the time I was settled, Miss Martin had receded to 
a shadowy place in a past which I did not like to remem¬ 
ber. There was never anything in common between us, 
except our loneliness and humanity. 

Still, I have often thought of her and wondered if she 
is as happy with Dicky in her Harlem flat as she expected 
to be. I have no idea that she would think me very lucky 
indeed, with my view of the river, and my richly fur¬ 
nished apartment, and my Chinese butler and my generous 
lover. 

She would be rather naive about it, with countless “ohs” 
said “ahs”—regard it as a big adventure. There was no 
envy or intolerance in Miss Martin. 

One Christmas I made out a check for a hundred dollars 
to send her, just for the feel of giving presents to some¬ 
one. As I was sealing the envelope, I remembered some¬ 
thing I once read about the sentimentality of fallen 
women. My damnable pride made me burn the thing. 

On Saturday and Sunday after leaving the office, I 
went about in a fever heat of excitement. I tried on 
my dresses a dozen times in order to be sure that the one 
I had selected to wear on Monday was most becoming. 
I supplied myself with cold cream, grease paint and heavy 
powder and experimented with various make-ups. 

Monday morning I was ushered into a dressing room 
at the International without any loss of time, and told 
to prepare myself for a try-out. 

When I emerged, my face a pale yellow mask of paint, 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


101 


it was to find a knot of people in one corner of the big, 
glass-roofed studio, discussing something excitedly. They 
hushed as I appeared but one of them, my hotel acquaint¬ 
ance, nudged his neighbor surreptitiously, and knowing 
glances were exchanged. 

“So you decided to take my advice,” he said to me 
amiably. 

Without waiting for the obvious answer, he issued a 
number of curt directions to some waiting men. 

“Yes, Mr. Lowenbein,” they replied with alacrity. 

I was instructed where to stand. 

The lights were turned on—great screens of greenish 
blue color that transformed the whiteness of my skin into 
a deathlike grey—that turned my nails and finger tips 
to purple. 

The camera was started. 

“Now, turn to the left—back—slowly. . . . Now, look 
down—smile.” 

This continued for perhaps five minutes before Mr. 
Lowenbein was satisfied. 

At last he nodded to the photographer. 

“Fine—all right, Miss May.” 

I stepped from behind the blinding lights. 

Mr. Lowenbein came forward rubbing his hands de¬ 
lightedly. 

“All to the good,” he told me. “Wouldn’t be surprised 
if you made a great little actress some day—We can’t tell 
until we get the film developed.” 

“How long will it be?” I asked, quivering with nervous 
excitement. 


102 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


“Oh—day after tomorrow. Come in then.” 

I returned to the dressing room to remove my make-up. 
Already I was feeling sophisticated, and at home in the 
big, barn-like studio, dusty, cluttered with sets, permeated 
by a fascinating medley of odors. 

As I was leaving, the slick-haired boy rose to open the 
door for me. 

“Say, you thought I was kidding you when you come 
in last week, but, honest, I thought you was Miss Mont¬ 
rose, and was just trying to be up-stage!” 

“That’s all right—” 

“Jimmie,” he supplied. 

“That’s all right, Jimmie,” Uorgave him. “They all 
do.” 

“Well, you should worry,” he consoled me. “She’s some 
looker.” 

“Oh, no, I don’t worry,” I replied cheerfully. 

But it was my ill-fated resemblance to Madeline Mont¬ 
rose that plunged me into abject wretchedness two days 
later. 

As I walked eagerly into the casting director’s office I 
became aware of a marked change in her manner. 

“Oh, yes,” she said in an off-hand way, “you were here 
on Monday for a try-out. . . .” 

Some premonition of disaster seized me in an icy grip. 
I merely nodded. Speech was impossible. 

“Well—you don’t photograph well—I’m sorry, but we 
can’t use you.” 

“But—but,” I stammered hopelessly. 

“There’s nothing to be done about it,” she remarked 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


103 


with finality. “The try-out was a failure. You’d much 
better forget all about acting, and try something else.” 

The ’phone rang and she turned to answer it with an 
air of terminating our interview. 

Dazed and sick at heart, I groped my way into the hall 
and started towards the door. 

Someone laid a hand on my arm, and I turned to see 
Jimmie, finger to lips, beckoning mysteriously. 

I leaned towards him. 

“Don’t you believe a word of it,” he whispered. “You 
looked like a million dollars in the try-out. I heard ’em. 
It’s Montrose. She got scared—wouldn’t have you in 
the company. They had an awful row . . . but what 
she says goes. She’s got a drag with the big bug.” 

I looked at him—consternation and relief struggling 
within me. 

“Then I wasn’t a failure,” I breathed softly. 

He grunted contemptuously. 

“Not so’s you’d notice it!” 

Tears welled into my eyes. 

“Oh, Jimmie, you are good to tell me this,” I cried. 

“Always glad to oblige a good-looking lady,” he said 
roughly, as he opened the door and bowed me out like 
a princess. 


VI 

I left the studio too dazed for consecutive thought. 
But back in my hot, third-story room this mood was 
quickly succeeded by one of resentment so keen that I 


104 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


felt the only way I could get relief would be to do physi¬ 
cal violence on someone. 

The whole structure of my plans had been levelled to 
the dust by the jealousy of a woman I had never seen. 
With one petulant word she had been able to destroy my 
hopes—to snatch away my means of earning a living at 
work that I liked. My anger focused on Madeline Mont- 
rose—absurd name! God, how I hated her! 

All day I sat there in the semi-darkness of my room into 
which the May heat billowed in a sickly tide from the 
roofs. The passion of fury within me, reaching a climax 
from time to time in electric-like shocks, had not spent 
itself by nightfall. 

At last, exhausted by emotion, and lack of food, I 
crawled miserably into bed and went to sleep. 

In the morning my state of mind was different. The 
impotent rage of the day before had given place to an 
almost savage determination to succeed in spite of them. 
My hatred of Miss Montrose had congealed into an icy 
point of resolution—to get even was my dominating 
thought. But I could wait. 

I considered what was best to be done. There was no 
immediate necessity for finding work. My precious sav¬ 
ings would take care of the food and lodgings question 
for some time yet. With careful husbanding, I might even 
get through the summer. After that—I would not let my¬ 
self think of what might happen after that. To admit 
myself beaten and return to the typing of endless, mean¬ 
ingless bills—almost any alternative was preferable. 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


105 


After a hearty breakfast at my dairy restaurant, I set 
out on a round of the studios. 

My appearance aroused interest and comment, but the 
answer was always the same with slight variations. 

“Nothing just now—perhaps next week. You might 
run in then.” 

I seemed to have struck a dull time in the industry. 

Day after day my performance was repeated with 
the same fruitless results. There was little or no work 
being done at any of the studios, and when an extra was 
needed, there were any number of experienced actors to be 
had. 

Little by little my money disappeared. Eight dollars a 
week for room, ten dollars for food, had been my original 
allowance. As May slipped into June and June into 
July, I moved to a higher, smaller room in the same 
house for which I paid only six dollars. It was little 
more than a closet—not so large as the bathroom at 
home—but I was too grateful for the saving of a few 
dollars to make unfavorable comparisons. 

By sleeping until nine-thirty or ten, and eating a com¬ 
bined breakfast-lunch about eleven-thirty, I managed to 
save two dollars more. I was afraid to economize too 
much on food because of its effect on my health. 

It was a strenuous life that I led, with the continual 
trudging about from studio to studio, the interminable 
waits, and the mental strain I suffered from anxiety and 
uncertainty. 

But I learned much about human nature during those 
hours spent outside casting directors’ offices. There is 


106 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


almost no type that cannot be found there. Perhaps 
the most pitiable were the old actors with their shabby, 
scrupulously brushed clothes, and their courtly manners. 
They were always just on the eve of some lucrative en¬ 
gagement—But, was there anything to be had in the 
studios until it should begin? 

Sometimes there was—more often there was not. In 
either case it was their habit to present an equable, un¬ 
moved front to the world, to depart leisurely, slightly 
bored, usually flecking an imaginary bit of dust from the 
one carefully pressed coat sleeve before settling the hats 
on their grey, magnificent heads. 

There were women with their daughters, preened out 
as if for sale, who grew combative after a number of 
refusals. 

But there seemed to be no situation which the casting 
director was incapable of handling with the minimum loss 
of time. 

“Nothing today.” 

“But,” the irate mother would protest, “you told us to 
come in today!” 

“You came at your own risk—there was no guarantee 
of work.” 

The imperturbable director would turn to the next ap¬ 
plicant, completely oblivious of the glares and voluble 
complaints of the disappointed woman. 

August came. My bank book showed a balance of only 
one hundred dollars. Still I made my rounds, now more 
from habit than from any hope of getting an engage¬ 
ment. 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


107 


I was like a blind man adrift in a canoe. Unless help 
came, some disaster was inevitable, but I could not tell 
what its nature would be. 

My only consolation in those weeks was the friendship 
of a girl whom I met at one of the studios. She was an 
actress on the legitimate stage, who occupied the barren 
time between engagements by working in the “movies.” 

I have never made friends easily, but there was a some¬ 
thing wistful and untouched about Alicia’s face that at¬ 
tracted me. 

From time to time I encountered her, and one day she 
asked me to come to see her. After that, we regularly 
dined together at inexpensive table d’hote places, and 
often spent our evenings in her room or mine, talking 
interminably. 

I told her my story and was rewarded by a fund of 
shrewd advice and suggestions. 

Alicia hated New York, which I could never under¬ 
stand—for with all my hard treatment at its hands I 
loved it just the same, and she hated the stage. Her one 
desire was to find some well-off man who would marry 
her and take her away from everything associated with 
her present life. 

She had the most romantic ideas about the country. 
For her, the very word symbolized peace and normal liv¬ 
ing, and contentment. 

She referred vaguely to an up-state suitor who was 
besieging her. 

“Then, why don’t you marry him?” I suggested. 

She colored faintly and looked away. 


108 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


“Because he hasn’t mentioned it,” Alicia said. Oh, 
you know how they are, or perhaps you don’t,” she went 
on with bitter violence. “They meet you after the show, 
and then draw their own conclusions because you re in 
a musical comedy, and then they hound you to get what 
they want!” 

We were silent for a moment. 

“Why don’t you send him away?” I asked at last. 

“Because I think he’s so crazy about me that he’ll ac¬ 
cept my terms—He’s no Romeo, and if he gets me, he 11 
have to marry me first. . . . Don’t look shocked you’ve 
never had to play one night stands year after year and go 
through the hell of being out of work maybe the week 
after your show got to town . . . and always and eter¬ 
nally fight—men! If you had, you’d understand why I 
snatch at anything to get out of it. Why, Gretchen, 
I’ve been on the stage since I was ten years old! Think 
of it! Nothing but a kid when I began. Do you wonder 
that I’m sick of it?” 

“No, I don’t wonder.” 

“And now I’ve found someone who can give me the sort 
of life I want—you can just bet I’ll play my cards right 
to get it.” 

She laughed a little apologetically. 

“I don’t often throw a fit like this—let’s talk about 
something pleasant!” 

One morning a few days later I found an advertisement 
in the morning paper that caused all my hopes to flare up 
again. It was in the “Help Wanted” column, and read: 

“Motion Picture: Young ladies wanted to act for new 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


109 


motion picture company. Just organized. Big oppor¬ 
tunity. Write Z118.” 

I omitted my customary visits to the studios and went 
home to compose a reply. 

Two hours went by while I tore up one draft after an¬ 
other. Finally, I produced a letter that satisfied me as 
being diplomatic and intriguing. I posted it immediately 
and went around for the next few days with a feeling of 
being on the eve of great events. 

It was four days after the posting of the letter that 
a reply came. 

It was a scant three lines requesting me to report to 
a given address the next afternoon. 

I read the instructions with such a feeling of joy in my 
heart that I thought it would burst. 

Perhaps rescue had come before it was too late! 


VII 

Mr. Grimbee, president of the Unlimited Film Produc¬ 
ing Company, was middle-aged, short and very fat. His 
fat was of a gelatinous quality. It hung about him in 
great sagging rolls that vibrated tremulously at the 
slightest motion. 

It is now over four years since I last saw him, but I 
remember with the vividness of a nightmare impression 
that quivering mass of flesh with blank little eyes sunk 
into it, like the currant eyes of a gingerbread man—the 
row of slightly discolored teeth at the bottom of which 


110 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


showed a narrow piping of gold—and his walk, a strange 
sideways waddle. 

When I was shown into his office, he was sitting by a 
desk littered with photographs and memoranda. From 
one corner of his mouth hung a black cigar, unlighted, at 
which he chewed absently, but with evident enjoyment. 

As I entered, he hastily removed his coat from the only 
vacant chair in the office. I noticed that the great man 
wore sleeve supporters of pink elastic. 

He heaved himself out of the swivel chair and advanced 
a few steps to meet me. 

“Miss May?” 

“Yes.” 

“How d’ye do—Have a seat.” 

I took the chair, cunningly placed so that I should 
face the light while he, observing me, could be in shadow. 
Apparently, this is considered an important strategic 
move by business men, so ready to seize upon any trick 
likely to give them an advantage, however slight, over the 
other fellow. Its childlike obliviousness always delights 
me. 

Mr. Grimble sat down with a relieved sigh and rum¬ 
maged among the litter before him. 

He drew out a sheet of note paper, spread it on the 
desk and began reading to himself. It was my letter. 

Suddenly he laughed, a short, barking sound that set 
his bulk to shaking alarmingly. 

He turned and looked at me. 

“That’s a good line of yours—‘it may be of advantage 
to both of us.’” 



WINDOWS FACING WEST 


111 


I smiled. 

“Was it presumptuous of me to think that I might be 
of any advantage to a great film company?” 

He appeared to consider. 

“You’re twenty—that’s a little old, but you don’t look 
a day over eighteen—” 

His eyes swept up and down my figure. 

For an instant they held an expression that affected 
me almost as an actual touch would have done. Then it 
blinked out. They became blank again. 

“Yes,” he said finally, as if to himself. 

He went to the door of his office and spoke to the man 
outside. 

I did not hear what he said, but presently my strain¬ 
ing ears caught the sound of the outer door closing 
softly. 

Mr. Grimble returned to his chair and leaned back 
luxuriously. Rummaging in a drawer of the desk, he drew 
out a box of matches and lighted the cigar which had 
remained in his mouth during most of our interview. 

“Well, Miss May—” he began and then stopped 
abruptly. 

“Yes,” I encouraged him. 

He deposited his cigar carefully in a tray containing 
the pulpy remains of its numerous predecessors, and 
leaned towards me. 

“If you film well, I can make a star of you in six 
months —if you’re a sensible girl.” 

“Oh, I’m a most sensible girl,” I told him, understand¬ 
ing. 


112 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


His glance searched mj face. 

“Good,” he said at last. “What do you think of 
those?” 

He pointed to the walls of the room which were covered 
by photographs of women. 

“They’re beautiful—may I look at them?” 

“Surely!” 

He accompanied me on my progress around the office, 
occasionally making a terse comment. 

When we had completed the rounds, my morale was 
badly shaken. I thought that even the least beautiful of 
the pictured women was lovelier than I. 

“Good lookers all right, eh?” 

“They are—they most certainly are,” I agreed wist¬ 
fully. 

Mr. Grimble leaned towards me and spoke in a confiden¬ 
tial undertone. 

“Not a virgin in the lot!” 

“Is that so,” I asked politely, because there didn’t seem 
to be anything else to say. 

“Surest thing in the world.” 

He held my glance for a long minute. 

“No foolishness about those girls—they knew what they 
wanted, and no price was too big to pay for it. . . . 
Who in hell cares about your morals—after you’ve made 
good?” he demanded. 

“I suppose you are quite right,” I assented. 

“You bet I’m right—and let me tell you one thing, 
the better you stand in with the big men, the less the little 
ones will bother you.” 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


113 


f 

He pointed to a blonde beauty on the wall. 

“See that girl? She didn’t have any pull high up in 
her company and every dam’ one of her pictures failed. 
Why? Because the camera man was down on her, and the 
lighting man was down on her, and every director was 
down on her. That’s why. If she’d stood in with one of 
the big men, the others would of been afraid to try any 
monkey business. Now she’s trying to get in with us for 
another try at it.” 

I realized that there was much the magazines had not 
told me. 

“There’s one thing about this company,” Mr. Grimble 
went on. “It’s not a bunch of dirty Jews—That’s why 
they’re all so crazy to get in. Why, do you know, they 
come here all day and beg me to take them on—offer them¬ 
selves ! They appreciate that it’s a Christian crowd— 
And what’s more, it never will be Jewish!” 

I looked at him amazed. This monstrous, loathsome 
man honestly believed that he was more acceptable by 
virtue of being non-Jewish! I had never known many 
Jews, but any one of those I had met, even Mr. Lowenbein, 
was less repulsive to me than this mountain of quaking 
fat. 

“I’ve taken a liking to you,” Mr. Grimble said, looking 
to see if I registered the proper appreciation—“If you 
was to love me a little, I could look after your pictures, 
see that they went O. K. . . 

“That’s awfully good of you,” I murmured helplessly. 

It came over me suddenly that this was the price I was 


114 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


required to pay. I had said that no sacrifice was too 
great. . . . 

“What do you say,” Mr. Grimble asked seductively 
after he had gazed at me in silence for a time. 

“When you’ve made a star of me,” I answered flatly. 

“Oh, that’s easy,” he replied, elated. “Now, if you’ll 
just slip off your dress, so I can get an idea of your 
weight. . . 

He indicated a burlap screen in one corner of the office, 

I wanted to laugh—to shriek wildly. This was too 
melodramatic to be taken seriously. It couldn't be hap¬ 
pening. 

I certainly did not want to appear in my underclothes 
before this man—not that I feared him, but that I 
shrank from the foolish indignity that he demanded. On 
the other hand, I was convinced of my ability to take 
care of myself; and I did not want to offend him at the 
outset. 

I stepped behind the screen and presently emerged in 
petticoat and camisole. 

Mr. Grimble waddled around me and gave vent to 
grunts of satisfaction. 

“You’ll do fine,” he said at last. “Now give me a kiss!” 

He stretched out his arms, but I eluded him and ran 
swiftly behind the screen. 

“I don’t pay in advance,” I announced pertly, feverishly 
snapping on my dress. 

He laughed his short bark. 

“Oh, well, there’ll be time enough for all that—eh?” 

“Loads of time.” 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


115 


I was composed, impudent, smiling. No one would ever 
have guessed the sick loathing which I felt. 

“Well, when shall I come for a try-out,” I asked in 
business-like tones. 

“Oh, you’ve had your try-out,” he jested, resuming his 
seat at the desk. “Come to-morrow morning—not here, 
to the studio.” 

He gave me the address. 

“Good-by,” I cried, keeping at a safe distance. 

“Good-by,” he echoed, not rising. 

At the door of the office, he stopped me. 

“Do you know who you look like?” he asked. 

I smiled. 

“Oh, yes, I know—only too well!” 

VIII 

The weeks that followed were busy ones. Mr. Grimble 
pronounced himself satisfied with my test pictures and 
almost immediately put me back to work in the new com¬ 
pany’s first production. 

The only things which kept my happiness from being 
complete were the increasing amorousness of Mr. Grimble, 
and the fact that no contract had yet been signed. 

“We’ll start you on a salary of a hundred and fifty per, 
and when you’re done with this picture, you and me can 
come together on the terms of a contract,” he said with a 
suggestive leer. 

Even I with my limited experience, realized that this 
was somewhat irregular, but I was too anxious for a start, 


116 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


to make objections. Also, a hundred and fifty dollars a 
week seemed a great deal to me. 

My days were spent in the big, hot studio behind the 
blinding lights. There were nights when we worked over 
scenes until twelve or one o’clock. It was body-breaking, 
soul-wearing, but I liked it. 

There were inescapable interviews with the Unlimited’s 
president that I came to dread more and more. He would 
send for me to come to his office—always late in the after¬ 
noon. Soon after I arrived, I would hear that soft 
closing of the outer door and know that the non-committal 
secretary had taken himself off—under orders. 

However, beyond an occasional kiss, Mr. Grimble made 
no headway. I was adamantine in my refusal to allow 
him any privileges until the contract with the company 
had been signed. His cajolery and sulking were alike 
ineffective. I was not afraid of his losing interest in me 
before I had become established, because all the signs 
pointed to the fact that this gargantuan creature desired 
me above everything else. It seemed to have become a 
ruling passion with him to break down my reserve—to 
force me to yield before the time when I had promised. 
Each time I left his office with the feeling of having ob¬ 
tained a short breathing space before another tremen¬ 
dous effort of will would be required of me. After each 
visit to him, I plunged into work more desperately than 
ever. 

One day the picture was held up for lack of certain 
costumes which had not been completed, so I had a holi¬ 
day. That evening I thought regretfully of Alicia. It 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


117 


had been ages since I saw her. After dinner I caught a 
’bus and went down to the funny little street where she 
lived on the off-chance of finding her in. 

Alicia had a room and kitchenette in an old-fashioned 
brownstone house. I rang the bell, walked up the two 
dark flights to her quarters and rapped at the door. 

There were frantic sounds within—running back and 
forth—the slamming of bureau drawers—the scraping of 
chairs. 

I knocked again. 

46 Just one minute,” she cried breathlessly. 

There was a moment’s quiet. I could imagine Alicia 
standing before her mirror, scrutinizing intently her olive 
skin, giving it a final brush of powder, smoothing her 
black hair into a gleaming, satiny surface. She was 
evidently expecting a caller. 

“Oh, you wicked girl to make me rush so,” she cried 
as she opened the door and caught sight of me. 

“Aren’t you glad to see me?” 

“Of course! But I thought you were—someone 
else ...” 

The slight embarrassment of her manner gave place to 
intense nervousness as she pushed me into a chair and 
leaned over me. 

“I’ve an idea, Gretchen, that to-night will decide,” she 
cried excitedly. 

J “What . . .?” 

“He’s coming.” 

“Who—the up-state suitor?” 

“Yes, and oh, Gretchen, he’s been spending money lately 


118 


WINDOWS PACING WEST 


like water . . . it’s a good sign, because before he’s 
never parted with a nickel that he didn’t actually have to. 
Why, honestly, in restaurants sometimes I’ve felt like 
apologizing to the waiters for the measley little tips he’s 
given them. And now! Well, the sky’s the limit!” 

“I’m awfully glad, dear—if you’re happy.” 

“I am,” she asserted stoutly. “When I think of never 
having to worry about getting work, or about rehearsals, 
or bad-tempered directors—oh, Gretchen! A home in 
the country with trees and bushels of flowers—it seems 
almost too good to be true!” 

“Well, dear, just be sure that you’ll get all that,” I 
said pessimistically, remembering my “home in the 
country.” 

“Tell me about yourself,” Alicia commanded, rising to 
switch on a shaded light by her bureau. “Is the new job 
as marvelous as you expected?” 

“It’s frightfully hard work—and there’re features I 
don’t like . . . ” 

“Men,” she asked, eyeing me shrewdly. 

I nodded briefly. 

“Man.” 

“There always is,” she commented, her expression be¬ 
coming wearily bitter. “If you stay at home, they have 
the upper hand, and if you work, it’s the same—until 
you’ve made good. But by that time the damage has 
been done. . . . They’re starring you, aren’t they?” 

“Yes.” 

“I haven’t worked for over a month,” Alicia said 
slowly. 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


119 


“Why don’t you go around to see Mr. Grimble, there’s 
always something, it seems to me. I’ll speak to him, if 
you like.” 

“Thanks, I’ll do that, if this falls through,” she 
agreed. 

There was a long peal of the bell. 

“There he is now,” Alicia cried, jumping up with a 
return of her nervous excitement and hurrying to the 
release which she pressed feverishly. 

“He doesn’t like to be kept waiting,” she explained. 
“We’re going to a show.” 

I rose hastily to leave. 

“Why don’t you wait and meet him—we’ll drop you at 
your place?” 

“No, I’d better go now ...” 

I took both her slim, brown hands and leaned down to 
kiss her. Alicia was very small. She clung to me for a 
moment. 

“You’re very sweet, Gretchen,” she said tremulously. 

“And so are you,” I replied, looking deep into her 
wistful eyes. “I hope you’ll get what you want—every¬ 
thing you want—Alicia.” 

My final glimpse of her was of a lithe, flame-colored 
figure flying to the mirror for a last careful inspection 
of itself. 

As I reached the head of the stairs, Alicia’s caller was 
mounting the last few steps. I leaned back against the 
wall, for a second too stunned and ill to move. As he 
caught sight of me, he started, and a look of shame, 
quickly banished, appeared on his white, furtive face. 


120 WINDOWS FACING WEST 

The tall figure in immaculate black clothes was Herman 
May. 

“Good evening, father,” I said softly, maliciously. 
“Somehow I never thought of you as a Don Juan!” 

He stared at me coldly, without recognition—sidled up 
the hall and rapped on Alicia’s door. 


IX 

I had heard nothing from Mr. Grimble for a long while 
when one morning he rang me at the studio and asked 
to see me that afternoon. As always, I was to come to 
his office for the interview. 

“I’ve a surprise for you, girlie,” he said. 

I wondered what the surprise could be. Prepared as 
I was for anything, I rather doubted that Mr. Grimble 
could surprise me. Still, my habitual trepidation was 
tinged with mild curiosity as I left the elevator and 
walked down the long hall to the Unlimited’s office. The 
outer office was deserted and I had to knock twice on the 
door to the president’s sanctum before his short “come 
in” invited me to enter. 

Since my first visit, six weeks before, the place had 
undergone radical changes. New furniture throughout, of 
luxurious mahogany, thick rugs, settees and chairs up¬ 
holstered in leather changed the bare, temporary appear¬ 
ance of the rooms into a look of solid prosperousness. 

Mr. Grimble sat at his desk reading a legal-looking 
document. He did not rise when I came in, but motioned 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


121 


to a chair and immediately plunged back into his 
absorption. 

I leaned back in the comfortable chair, grateful for a 
few moment’s relaxation after my long day at the studio. 
Within another week the picture would be finished, if all 
went well—and every member of the cast was working 
overtime. 

For perhaps five minutes Mr. Grimble remained ob¬ 
livious of my presence. Then he gave vent to a satisfied 
exclamation. 

“Well, what do you think of that,” he asked, tossing 
the document in my lap and eyeing me closely. 

It was a contract. 

“All it needs to make it water-tight is your name,” he 
told me. “Read it over.” 

I glanced through the closely written paragraphs 
wherein I promised to act exclusively for The Unlimited 
Film Producing Company for the next three years at a 
salary of eight thousand dollars a year, giving them an 
option on the next three years of my life. Again I went 
through the maze of “party of the first part” and “party 
of the second part”—this time more carefully. Then I 
laid the contract on Mr. Grimble’s desk and smiled at him. 

“How does it strike you?” he asked, beaming. 

“All right—you’re not getting the worst of it by any 
manner of means, but it’s the best thing in sight for me.” 

“Well, you know we discovered you—and are training 
you. That gives us the right to some advantage, don’t 
it?” 

“Oh, yes,” 


122 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


“And the next contract will more’n likely call for a 
salary of eighty thousand per, if you make good,” he 
continued jocularly. “International’s in a hell of a stew 
because we got you to work for us. They got wind of it 
somehow, and Montrose has raised a rough-house. 
They’ve been trying to buy us off—get us to can you, 
see? But that’s where I come in. I told ’em to go chase 
themselves—that you’d have Montrose beat in a year. 
But,” he tapped the contract suggestively, “I thought we 
might as well get things cinched without losing any more 
time.” 

“Oh, that—that awful woman,” I cried, angrily tearful. 

“Who—Montrose? Sure,” he agreed cheerfully. “But 
you can’t blame her. She’s a goner, if you get going.” 

He leaned forward and took my hands, drawing me 
towards him. 

“And I’ll see that you do get going, if you’re good to 
me.” 

I let him pull me on his knees, endured his long kisses 
passively, but when his pudgy hand moved down my 
throat to my breast, instinctive modesty made me draw 
back sharply. 

“Don’t,” I cried. 

“Don’t,” he echoed, surprised, “you ain’t going to keep 
on putting me off, are you?” 

He tapped the contract on his desk. 

“This shows that I’ve got faith in you—now you got 
to show your faith in me.” 

The telephone rang, stridently—insistently. 

“Oh, damn the damn thing,” Mr. Grimble cursed fer- 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


123 


vently when it could no longer be ignored. He jerked 
down the receiver and barked a “hello.” 

I seized the opportunity to slip from his lap, back into 
my chair. 

From his remarks I could get no idea of the conversa¬ 
tion, but I saw that he was seriously annoyed. 

“Yes.” 

“Yes.” 

“Can’t it wait?” 

“Well—all right, but right away, and make it snappy.” 

He turned from the instrument, a scowl on his heavy 
features. 

“Some idiot’s got to see me on important business this 
afternoon. I told him to come right up.” 

I rose, scarcely bothering to conceal my relief. 

“Then, I’ll leave you.” 

“Wait a minute,” he ordered, “I want you to come 
back in about forty minutes.” 

He consulted his watch. 

“It’s a quarter of six now—you come back at six-thirty. 
I’ll get rid of this fellow before then; there’re a lot of 
things we’ve got to get settled.” 

I realized that he meant to demand payment—that I 
could temporize no longer. My despair was the greater 
because I knew that always I had hoped to make myself 
so valuable to the company that he would give me a chance 
regardless of whether I kept my promise or no. This 
was not true. There were many potential stars who were 
willing to give what he asked of me—He desired me, but 
I was not indispensable. I knew as well as if he had told 


124 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


me that I should not be allowed to sign my name on the 
dotted line of that contract until he had possessed me. 
However, in spite of my loathing aversion it never oc¬ 
curred to me to retreat. After all, my chastity had never 
earned one meal, nor a night’s lodging, nor peace of mind 
for me. Not moral scruples, but fastidiousness, held me 
back. My ambition, and the spur of Madeline Montrose’s 
“rough house” urged me on. Too much was at stake for 
me to weaken now. 

“I’ll be back at six-thirty,” I said tonelessly. 

“Good!” 

There was but one thought in my mind as I left the 
building; to find some one who would accompany me back 
to the Unlimited’s offices. I had an almost morbid fear 
of going alone. Not that I thought company would 
change the issue in any way, but that I feared to be in 
that deserted building with only Mr. Grimble. 

Even now, I can not find a satisfactory explanation of 
my mood. Unless it was due to that innate caution of 
mine which I have never quite outlived—an inability to 
trust any one completely. At least, he could not 
murder me conveniently with a third person within calling 
distance! 

I stood on the sidewalk and thought desperately for a 
moment. There was no one to whom I could appeal. 
Alicia—but I had not seen her since the night I surprised 
my father at her door. I had rung the next morning to 
tell her the truth about him, but her landlady informed me 
that Miss Cary had gone without leaving an address. 
Poor Alicia! I could not believe that Herman May had 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


125 


endangered his church and social connections by bringing 
home an unknown actress as his wife. 

Friendships in New York are like fascinating serial 
stories into which one dips for a few chapters without 
knowing what has gone before, and most often without 
discovering the end. 

I had known a number of people since leaving home, 
but none so intimately that I could call on them now. 
Miss Martin would come and gladly—but how could I 
explain my action to her, even if she were able to leave 
the office . . . 

The thought of Miss Martin recalled to me a remark of 
hers about the hotel at which we had lunched together. 

“It’s an awful place for pick-ups,” she had said. 

Without any definite idea, I started walking the six 
blocks to the hotel. It was as good a place to wait as any. 

I selected a chair in the big, ornate lobby and sat 
indifferently watching the stream of people that flowed in 
and out. 

Soon I had the feeling of being watched. I turned im¬ 
perceptibly and caught the intent gaze of a youngish- 
looking man in a chair near my own. Miss Martin had 
been right. 

I did not know the technique of pick-ups, but I knew 
that this man wanted to speak to me. Had I been better 
versed in the science, I should have encouraged him. As 
it was, I turned back quickly, overcome with shyness, and 
fixed my eyes on the clock. He did not cease staring. 

At a quarter past six, I rose, unable to endure the mes¬ 
meric pull of those eyes any longer and left the hotel. 


126 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


He passed me on the steps—walked slowly ahead of 
me down the street—turned at the corner and smiled. 

Without my volition, I smiled too, and extended my 
hand. 

“How do you do,” I asked cordially. 

“Fine, how are you?” 

It might have been a chance meeting of old friends. He 
fell into step beside me. 

“Pm awfully lonely,” he said. “Will you have dinner 
with me to-night?” 

“If you will go with me first to an appointment I have 
I warn you, it may take quite a while.” 

“Time’s nothing to me,” he replied easily. 

“I tell you what,” I suggested, made awkward by my 
nervousness, as we reached the looming pile of brick where 
Mr. Grimble awaited me. “Suppose you wait for half an 
hour in the drug-store on the ground floor here, and then, 
if I haven’t come, walk up to the second floor (the ele¬ 
vator’s stopped running) and knock on the door at the 
end of the hall—just to remind me.” 

He raised his eyebrows a trifle. Indeed, it sounded as if 
I were involved in some desperate, detective plot. Then 
he smiled. 

“I’ll do it,” he agreed. 

“Thank you Mr. ...” 

“My name’s Archer.” 

Mr. Grimble was waiting for me in his office. As he 
sat there on the leather upholstered sofa, he looked like an 
old heathen idol with his blank little eyes and immobile 
face. 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


127 


He greeted me fatuously. 

“Come, sit down,” he urged, patting the settee 
invitingly. 

I gingerly took the place indicated. 

“Love me a little?” he asked. 

“Lots,” I smiled courageously. 

“Fine—and you won’t regret it either.” 

He encircled me with his gigantic arms—showered slow 
kisses on my lips and throat—pressed me back, his strong 
mouth against mine. 

I seemed to hear Jake’s voice crying sorrowfully: 

“Guinevere, oh, Guinevere!” 

Then everything was blotted out in a riot of starved 
senses. 


X 

One may prefer caviar to cabbage—one’s fastidious 
mind may abhor the spectacle of cabbage eating, but 
one’s lusty, expedient body is not revolted by cabbage, if 
there is nothing else. 

As I smoothed my hair before the little mirror in Mr. 
Grimble’s office, I told myself that I was a fallen woman 
—told myself solemnly two or three times. But the 
words carried no conviction. I did not feel sinful. I felt 
not at all different except for an indescribably vivid glow 
of well-being. 

The image of a prism such as one sees on chandeliers 
came into my mind. I felt much as a prism looks— 
sparkling, colorful, intense. 


128 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


But returning to cabbage after one is satisfied is 
another matter. Mr. Grimble told me goodby with extrav¬ 
agant protestations of love to which I scarcely listened, 
so intent was I on getting away. He murmured some¬ 
thing about finding an apartment for me at once. I 
acquiesced, as I would have acquiesced to a suggestion 
that I dine exclusively on humming birds’ tongues in the 
future. Anything to get rid of him! 

I closed the office door behind me. As I did so, I caught 
sight of Mr. Archer coming down the hall. 

I had forgotten all about him. 

As we met, he bent down swiftly to kiss me. 

“What do you mean?” I asked, drawing back furiously. 
“If you’re expecting anything like that from me, I may 
as well tell you now that you’ll be disappointed. You 
picked me up—I picked you up—we’re equally to blame. 
I’m willing to have dinner with you . . . I’ll try to be 
an amusing companion during the meal. But that’s as 
far as it goes—understand?” 

“God knows I’m willing,” Mr. Archer said gloomily. 
“I was only trying to do what is usually expected.” 

“I appreciate your thoughtfulness,” I told him snap¬ 
pishly, “but it’s quite mistaken in this case.” 

He smiled suddenly—a flashing smile that illumined and 
gave exceptional charm to his dark face. 

“Good heavens, we’re already quarreling like lovers 

I made no answer as we walked to the street in pro¬ 
found silence. 

“How about Sherry’s,” he suggested. 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


129 


I had never been there. He looked his surprise and 
signaled a passing taxi. 

Before my engagement with The Unlimited, I could not 
afford to patronize expensive restaurants. Afterwards, 
I was usually too tired to care where I ate, or what. The 
dairy lunch near my lodgings served well enough. 

My companion was about thirty-five, slender and im¬ 
maculately dressed. He was dark and un-American look- 
ing (I later learned that his mother was a Polish woman) 
with a peculiarly melancholy cast of features. 

Mr. Archer, if he possessed no other virtues, knew how 
to order a dinner. 

He seemed familiar with the place—the headwaiter 
called him by name which impressed me mightily—and 
all its resources. 

In a miraculously short time, we had the first course 
before us. Mr. Archer spoke to the waiter in an aside, 
the latter nodded and darted away to reappear with a 
bottle packed in ice. 

“Champagne’s the only thing I can imagine you drink¬ 
ing,” Mr. Archer said to me, “it fits you somehow as 
nothing else would—except perhaps creme de menthe or 
benedictine—and they’re a little—heavy.” 

The picture of a moonlit beach sprang up before me— 
Jake triumphantly bringing forth a long-necked bottle— 
our kiss by the lake. ... A sudden thought stabbed 
me. I had killed Jake because of his one innocent indis¬ 
cretion—I! 

My face must have been quite white as I refused. 

“No, thank you—I won’t drink.” 


130 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


“Oh, please, just a little one . . . ?”^ 

“None, if you don’t mind.” 

Mr. Archer looked at me curiously. 

“What are you?” he asked. “I mean, what do you 

do?” 

“Can’t we just be ourselves without any backgrounds 
at all?” I begged. “I don’t want to know about you, and 
I’d rather not talk about myself. We are wanderers who 
have come together for an hour to forget our loneliness. 

. . . Can’t it be that way?” 

“You pique me,” he said slowly. “You meet me in a 
highly unconventional manner—you’ve the eyes of a 
schoolgirl—and you won’t drink, even champagne. What 
are you called, innocent adventuress? 

“They call me Gretchen, sir.” 

“Gretchen,” he mused, “it suits one part of your per¬ 
sonality—my name is DuVal, after my father whom I 
resemble in nothing else.” 

“It’s a very—picturesque name.” 

“He was not a very picturesque person. But my 
mother—Gretchen, you would have loved my mother.” 

“Is she-?” 

“Yes, when I was sixteen.” 

“Mother died when I was sixteen.” 

“And did you start being lonely then as I did?” 

“No—I didn’t like her very much.” 

He looked shocked for a moment and then his brilliant 
smile appeared. As long as I knew DuVal, I never heard 
him laugh more than two or three times, but he smiled 
frequently—at first. 



WINDOWS FACING WEST 


131 


4 ‘It looks as if you’re by way of being a new type, 
Gretchen. I thought I’d known almost every kind of 
woman, but apparently my boasted knowledge of them 
has been as unfounded as that of disillusioned pupp 
love. Are you to be trusted, Gretchen?” he ended with 
inexplicable intentness. 

“I don’t know,” I replied after thinking a minute. 

Archer clapped his hands delightedly. 

“She doesn’t know! That means you are an honest 
woman, at least.—I haven’t believed there were any honest 
women since—since my wife left me three years ago.” 

44 Why did she leave you, DuVal?” 

He shrugged his shoulders and a look of gleaming hate 
routed the melancholy in his eyes. 

“For another man—a regular chorus boy! Pink 
cheeked, blue eyed, cherubic—unforgivably collegy.” 

We were talking with the unrestraint of complete 
strangers who never have to see each other again, unless 
they wish. 

“I divorced her, of course.” 

“My lover died,” I told him impulsively. “Killed in an 
automobile accident—in fact, I killed him. He’d been 
drinking and I sent him away, so you see, I was really to 
blame for his death.” 

It was the first time I had voiced that haunting thought 
to any one. The words brought a strange relief to me, 
as if my admission of guilt, my insistence on this point, 
had in some obscure way atoned. 

My companion reached across the table and pressed 
my hands convulsively. He seemed deeply moved. His 


132 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


expressive face had taken on a look of pitying sadness. I 
was surprised to see that his eyes were wet with tears. 

“You poor child—Don’t talk so. How could you 
know?” 

He took out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes with no 
sign of the average man’s* agony on being detected in 
tears. 

We finished dinner in a subdued mood. 

Mr. Archer called for the check and protested heatedly 
when I insisted on paying half. 

“But why? It was I who invited you to dinner.” 

“Please,” I begged. “Don’t you see how I feel? You 
needn’t worry about my doing it. . . . I’ve plenty of 
money.” 

He gave in finally, but on the condition that I should be 
his guest some evening very soon. 

On the street I said good-by. 

“Do you think I’d let you go home alone—at this hour,” 
he asked in astonishment. 

I laughed. It was not yet half-past nine. 

“If you knew the hours at which I have gone home 
alone,” I began. 

He looked at me sharply. 

“What?” 

“You’re evidently not accustomed to associate with 
independent working women,” I said lightly. 

“No, I’m not,” he agreed. “And I never would get 
used to it. It’s not right!” 

“But often necessary,” I suggested. 

“I’m not so sure of that,” he persisted stubbornly. 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


133 


In spite of my pleas, he called a cab and accompanied 
me to my door. 

We paused for a moment on the steps. 

“Thank you, Gretchen—for everything, but most of 
all for being yourself, when most people are preoccupied 
with being almost anything else.” 

“You’ve nothing to thank me for,” I said. “It’s I who 
should thank you ...” 

“To-morrow evening,” he asked. 

“No. I shall be very busy to-morrow.” 

“Then, Thursday?” 

“Do you think it’s best,” I parried; “can anything come 
of a friendship begun in this way?” 

“Don’t you know that I don’t misunderstand you,” he 
asked. “There are many things that I don’t understand, 
but I know (it’s an over-worked word) that you are a 
lady—the rest doesn’t matter greatly. Say that you will 
let me see you Thursday—I’m very lonely, Gretchen!” 

“Well—goodby till Thursday, then—if you’re 

sure . . . ?” 

“I am.” 

He bowed over my hand, went swiftly down the steps 
and climbed into the waiting cab. 

I mounted the stairs to my second story room (when 
my period of prosperity began, I had moved from the 
closet under the eaves) and switched on the light. 

As I did so, a thought occurred that caused me to burst 
into a gale of hysterical laughter. 

I had left Mr. Grimble’s office without remembering to 
sign the contract. 


134 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


XI 

This ironic fact was now my greatest asset. For after 
my experience with Mr. Grimble I knew that I could not 
accept his conditions. Of the shame, regrets and self- 
reproaches with which most girls in my position would 
have tortured themselves, I felt not a trace. 

For all our differences, the blood of Herman May beat 
strongly in my veins, as my attitude on this occasion 
showed. Nothing remained of my mother’s weak, senti¬ 
mental, moralizing nature, so far as I could tell. Her 
inhibitions had power over me for the last time that night 
when I sent Jake Frazer to his death. 

Father aways knew what he wanted, and would accept 
any terms, moral or otherwise, which enabled him to get 
it. Afterwards, if he found he’d the worst end of the 
bargain,—well, he didn’t waste time in fretful squealings. 

Nor did I now. 

It was not a thing to be reasoned about—something 
deep and fundamental forbade me to return. I meant 
never to return. If I could avoid it, I would never look 
on that mask-like face, those blank eyes, and the hideous 
gold piped teeth again. I took keen pleasure in imagining 
Mr. Grimble’s consternation when he discovered that I 
had abandoned him a week before the picture was due to 
be finished. For once, he had overreached himself in 
scheming for his own advantage. I was not bound in any 
way—indeed, I had worked two days for which I did not 
intend to claim payment. I, perhaps the most gullible of 
all his dupes, would get the best of him at last. 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


135 


Towards Mr. Grimble himself, I felt no particular ani¬ 
mosity ... it was divinely right that the driver of 
hard bargains should be worsted, that was all. 

My most vindictive wish was that he might have a 
steady stream of beautiful and ambitious young women 
passing through his office. Fate would take care of the 
rest. Mr. Grimble was not a young man. 

Before I went to bed I wrote a note to him in which I 
said that I could not continue to act for the Unlimited 
and requested him to make no effort to get in touch with 
me. 

To make assurance doubly sure, I informed my land¬ 
lady that I had been called out of town and had no idea 
when I should return. 

Next morning I paid her an extra week’s rent and set 
out to find new lodgings. 

This was not difficult as the autumn apartment hunting 
had not yet begun in earnest. With the morning paper* 
to guide me, I soon found a comfortable room in the 
upper thirties at a rate that was not too exorbitant. I 
returned for my steamer trunk and suitcases, and was 
settled in my new home before eleven o’clock. 

Again I was adrift, without plans or work or friends. 
Yet for the first time in weeks I felt that I could call my 
soul my own. 

It was with regret that I remembered DuVal Arched. 
There was no way by which I could let him know of my 
new address except by leaving it with my former 
landlady. This, I did not dare to do. Mr. Grimble, I 
knew, would resort to any means to discover my where- 


136 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


abouts, and I feared that her morals were not sufficient^ 
well-grounded to resist a bribe. Perhaps it was best so. 
Mr. Archer was connected even if indirectly with a phase 
of my life which I wanted to forget completely. 

All day I sat in my room, reading and thinking— 
content to bask in the knowledge of my freedom. That 
night I went to bed at nine o’clock to fall immediately into 
a deep, child-like sleep. 


XII 

The weeks that followed resembled in every particular 
those weeks that had preceded my engagement by Mr. 
Grimble. 

The daily round of the studios—the scrimping meals— 
the worry about money had begun again. 

My clothes for “The Rose of Arcady” had eaten up a 
good third of the salary I received, so that I found myself 
at the time I left not very much better off financially than 
I had been when I resigned my position at the office on 
the strength of the International’s encouragement. 

A few stunning gowns, a few hundred dollars in cash, 
and a great deal of experience, constituted my assets. 

I was older, warier, tried—but still hoping for a 
miracle. It was this faith in to-morrow which kept me 
from despairing even when things looked blackest. 

The idea of going back to an office never once presented 
itself to me as a way out. Nor does it surprise me now 
that this possibility was eliminated from my calculations. 

My year as a billing clerk bred in me such a repugnance 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


137 


to business that I can hardly bear to enter an office 
to this day. 

As I look back now to that time, I wonder that the 
thought of suicide did not occur to me as I faced dis¬ 
couragement day after day—watching my money trickle 
through my fingers with no prospect of earning more. 

Perhaps my bodily health made such an alternative 
seem unthinkable, but I am inclined to believe that it was 
my unconscious reliance on some improbable, last minute 
solution of my difficulties which kept me doggedly hopeful. 

XIII 

My resources were very low indeed when I finally ob¬ 
tained work. 

“Anything to-day,” I asked, walking into the casting 
director’s office at one of the larger studios. 

“How tall are you,” he shot out without preliminaries. 

“Five feet, three inches,” I answered hopefully. 

“Come in to-morrow at ten.” 

That was all; yet it meant that I was for the time being 
released from the gnawing anxiety which had been my 
companion for longer than I cared to remember. My 
mercurial spirits soared into confident, lofty spaces-—I 
should make good yet by my own efforts! 

Indescribably elated, I went out and ordered a huge 
lunch, with beefsteak. 

But that night, remembering the International, a qualm 
of uneasiness smote me, and I confined my dinner to a 
glass of milk and a bun. 


138 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


Next morning I found five other girls of my own height 
assembled in the office when I arrived. 

“We want you for a bit in the new Eglamore picture,” 
the director told us. “It will be shot at the 53rd Street 
studio. You’d better hurry down there. Costumes will 
be furnished you. . . . Seven-fifty is the pay.” 

It was not very promising. Still, a day’s work would 
almost pay my room rent for one week—and an engage¬ 
ment was an engagement! 

We filed out the office and boarded a surface car at 
the corner. 

The other girls seemed to know each other. They 
talked and laughed and exchanged grievances in the 
friendliest manner. But I was an outsider. I must con¬ 
fess to a snobbish feeling of shame at being in their 
company. It was not only that I was better dressed— 
there was a subtle lack of refinement in them that repelled 
me. It is probable that they felt my unspoken criticism 
and were even louder and more buoyant than usual to 
show their defiance of it. 

We found only a pale, long haired boy at the studio. 
One of the girls, a slender creature with a mass of black 
bobbed hair, addressed him pertly and told our errand. 

“Richardson’s directing—and he hasn’t showed up 
yet,” the youth replied indifferently. “You can wait.” 

We sat down on stiff chairs against the wall and waited. 

We waited for two and a half hours. 

At the end of that time the boy appeared and languidly 
informed us that Richardson had telephoned. There had 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


139 


been a hitch about costumes—and we were to report the 
next day at the 133rd St. studio at ten o’clock. 

“Well, say, we get paid for to-day, don’t we?” the 
bobbed haired girl asked belligerently. 

The boy shrugged. 

“Search me—I ain’t bossin’ the lot.” 

Our experience at the 133rd St. studio differed in no 
respect from that of the day before, except that we waited 
four hours. 

Mr. Richardson, it seemed, could not be present to 
direct us. We were to report next day at the same time. 

But the next morning, life began to look considerably 
rosier. We were assigned almost immediately to a great 
dressing room and told to make up. 

Then our costumes were brought—red woolen tights 
with feet attached and a cap with stuffed points on top 
to represent horns. 

The garments fitted like wax. The woolen cloth 
scratched unbearably, but we were too overjoyed at the 
end of our long waiting to complain of such minor 
inconveniences. 

Painfully encased, we sat in the dressing room awaiting 
our call before the camera. 

One of the girls pored intently over a paper-bound 
book, her lips visibly forming each word as she read. The 
rest of us drooped on the stiff backed chairs and talked 
fitfully. 

“Ever been on the legit’,” the bobbed hair girl asked 
me sudddenly. 


140 WINDOWS FACING WEST 

“No, only the pictures—and that for just a short 
while.” 

“Nothing like the footlights,” she told me. “My hus¬ 
band and I do a vaudeville act. It’s a riot—brings down 
the house every time. When we’re not working, I do 
this.” She indicated her makeup with a scornful gesture. 

“It’s not so bad, though,” she defended, “there’s always 
a chance that some director’ll lamp you and give you a 
real job—and meantime, it’s good money.” 

“Have you been acting long?” I asked her in an effort 
at friendliness. 

“So long I can’t remember when I began—When I first 
started in pictures, a director told me that, if I was three 
inches taller, I’d be a perfect vamp type. ... I ask 
you, ain’t it tough luck? All that stands between me and 
big money is three inches!” 

She laughed ruefully. 

A great sympathy trembled within me. The memory 
of my previous snobbishness hurt like an insult. Any one 
of these girls was better than I, because they made no 
claim to superiority. 

The room with its long line of mirrors over which 
blazed the electric lights in their wire cages—we six fan¬ 
tastic figures, two-toned, scarlet and yellow, took on a 
significance beyond the surface significance. The dis¬ 
harmonies resolved themselves into clear tone. 

The girl whose lack of three inches kept her from big 
money—I whose obstacle was no less real than hers 
because of being intangible—the girl whose scarlet horns 
jutted grotesquely over the book she read—the three other 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


141 


figures, pallid with paint, were all caught together in a 
swirl of cosmic intention. It all meant something. . . . 
What did it mean? I almost saw the underlying unity 
that bound the splinters of our personalities into a perfect 
whole. For an instant I sensed the purpose of life. I 
had the feeling one experiences sometimes in dreams—of 
being on the verge of a revelation that would lay bare the 
innermost heart of everything. 

Then it went. 

“You look like you’re seeing ghosts,” the bobbed haired 
girl exclaimed. 

I looked up to find her watching me intently. At her 
words, the girl who read glanced at me curiously over the 
top of her book. 

“Maybe I am,” I smiled. “All of us—ghosts !” 

“No ghost ever itched like me,” she retorted to a faint 
burst of laughter from the others. She pulled at the thick 
woolen stuff of her tights in an effort to ease the impris¬ 
oned flesh beneath. 

The morning dragged itself away. 

At half-past twelve sandwiches and coffee were brought 
to us from the cafeteria in the building. 

At two we were called. 

Before a narrow, raised platform at one end of the 
studio, a knot of men stood talking. 

As we entered, one of them separated himself from the 
group and came over to us. It was the director. 

“Do you know, girls,” he began, and then stopped short 
as he caught sight of me. 

“What’s your name?” he asked. 


142 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


At his words an instantaneous tension made itself felt 
among my companions. They seemed to draw together 
hostile—against me. 

I told him. 

He nodded. 

“That so? I thought for a second—you look an awful 
lot like Madeline Montrose,” he ended conversationally. 

The tension relaxed. 

“There’s been a silly mistake made, girls,” Mr. Richard¬ 
son continued. “Your costumes shouldn’t be red. It 
won’t photograph right. We’ll have to get some other 
color. I’m afraid it’s too late to fix it up to-day. But 
we can rehearse your scene and then to-morrow it won’t 
take but a few minutes to get through with it.” 

We nodded amiably in spite of our disappointment. 
Mr. Richardson was the sort of director for whom one 
worked till one dropped. 

“Just climb up there,” he went on, indicating the high 
platform. “You’re supposed to be devils—dancing— 
tempting a man. Now let’s see what sort of dance you 
can do.” 

For perhaps half an hour we gyrated nervously on the 
narrow stage before Mr. Richardson pronounced himself 
satisfied, and dismissed us. 

As I rubbed cold cream into my chafed skin that night, 
I thought that seven-fifty a day was none too much for 
what we were required to do. Still, as the bobbed-haired 
girl had phrased it, there was always a chance that some 
director would “lamp” you and become interested. 

I knew that I filmed well—I knew that I did not act 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


143 


badly. I should do my part in the devil’s dance as if it 
were a leading role—Perhaps . . . 

I went to sleep speculating on the possibilities that 
might ensue. 

Mr. Richardson was right. 

Attired in our new costumes, which were sulphur col¬ 
ored and boasted long tails as well as horns, we danced 
frantically for fifteen minutes. Then he nodded to the 
camera man and told us to stop. 

“Fine,” he cheered enthusiastically, as if he had just 
finished a tremendous emotional scene. 

“Fine—Now get dressed and bring your costumes down 
to the 59th Street place. I’ll be waiting there and will 
see that you get credit for full time.” 

Thirty minutes later, each with bundle and make-up 
box, we checked in our costumes at the 59th Street studio. 
Mr. Richardson accompanied us to the wardrobe room. 

As we entered, a tired looking woman glanced up. 

“Were they all right?” she asked eagerly. “We sat up 
half the night to get them made—there wasn’t any 
yellow ones in stock.” 

Mr. Richardson stopped and chatted with her. “They 
were fine. It’s to be a dance of the devils—just imaginary, 
you know,” he said. “The little devils are tempting a 
man—they dance across his desk—just little things, you 
know—reduced to five inches high. These girls did fine 
at it!’ 

“Five inches high!” 

Then no one would ever know any of us. I thought of 


144 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


the care with which I had made up and danced of the 
long waits—the sting of the wretched garments. 

Suddenly I leaned against the wall and gave way to 
laughter that rose and fell in shrill cadences laughter 
strangely intermingled with tears. 

Mr. Richardson tried to comfort me. But he had no 
idea of what was the matter. 

I became ashamed of myself, struggled to quiet my sobs 
—looked up and laughed determinedly. 

“It was so funny,” I said, “to think of being reduced to 
five inches.” 

He patted my shoulder and laughed uncertainly. 

“Yes, it is funny, isn’t it?” 

As we went down the steep, dark stairway to the 
cashier’s office, I was discouraged, completely disillusioned 
by the futility of the whole thing. 

I was done with motion pictures, and, oddly enough, it 
was Mr. Richardson rather than Mr. Grimble who had 
brought me to my present state of mind. 

I folded the crisp bills, my three and a half days’ pay, 
and placed them in my purse, vowing that I would not 
enter a studio again. 

As I reached the hall on my way out, a man was stand¬ 
ing by the door, looking unspeakably dejected. 

It was DuVal Archer. 

When he saw me his face lighted wonderfully. He ran 
forward and caught both my hands in a crushing grip. 

“Gretchen—Gretchen,” he cried, “if you only knew 
how I’ve looked for you everywhere!” 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


145 


XIV 

“You’ve been crying, Gretchen—and you’re thin. 
What have they done to you,” DuVal asked as we went 
down the street together. 

The joyous security of being with him—of knowing 
there was one person who cared, enabled me to jest. 

“They reduced me to five inches,” I replied lightly. 

“Did what,” he exclaimed in such consternation that 
for a moment I could only laugh at him. 

Then I explained the dance of the devils. 

“It’s a crime—you in tights before all those beastly 
men! Don’t do it again, Gretchen—you’re made for 
something better!” 

“I rather think I shan’t,” I told him slowly, “though 
not altogether because of the tights.” 

We walked into the park, as if by mutual consent, and 
sat down on a green bench by the driveway. 

“How did you know I was in pictures ?” I wondered. 

DuVal looked slightly embarrassed. 

“You remember the day I met you? . . . When your 
landlady told me you had left town, I couldn’t believe it. 

. . . I went back to that place where you’d told me to 
come, if you hadn’t appeared in half an hour. There was 

a man in-” He hesitated for a moment. “He said 

you’d turned down their contract and disappeared—he 
was huffy as the devil about it—Why did you turn down 
their contract, Gretchen?” DuVal asked, looking at me 
with the fiery intensity so characteristic of him. 

For some reason, I did not resent his questioning. It 



146 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


was right that he who had helped me twice should know 
what he wished about me. 

“I couldn’t accept their conditions ” 

“I knew it! —So then I went every day to the studios 
looking for you—How long has it been since we met ? 
Six weeks? . . . Well, every day I’ve gone to some of 
them, trying to find you. (God, what places! How do 
you stand it?) To-day, I was just on the point of giving 
it up as a bad job when you came into the hall there. 
I don’t think I’d realized until then what finding you 
meant to me. . . 

“I’m glad you came. ... I was pretty sick of it 
. . there was no one to talk to. ... I don’t know 
what I might have done if you hadn’t come,” I said. 

We sat silent looking out over the wide stretch of grass 
before us. The trees stood motionless and massed, like 
the trees in paintings. Pale sunlight glinted through 
their branches,—cast lace-like patterns of shadow on the 
turf. Why were shadows always black, I wondered idly. 
The leaves were red and gold. 

“There was something about-you, Gretchen,” DuVal 
broke the long silence, “that I’d never seen before—your 
honesty that is like a shining armor—your loneliness— 
your beauty. . . . When I left you that night, I 
thought I might come to love you. When I found you 
had gone (why did you go?), I knew that I’d loved you 
from the first.—We are both lonely—marry me, dear girl, 
and let’s be lonely together,” he finished whimsically. 

I was so tired, so heartsick. I had so long struggled 
alone. This man’s words were like an opiate, soothing— 




WINDOWS FACING WEST 


147 


bringing forgetfulness. It was so easy, fatally easy, to 
slip out of my pain in this way. Marriage? I had no 
illusions about marriage, but at its worst, was it less 
desirable than my present fighting, worrying, uncertain 
existence? There was a part of me that said: “Go on! 
Keep fighting!” But what chance had it against my tired 
body and mind’s longing for peace? 

“You don’t know a thing about me,” I said. 

“I know enough.” 

“There are things you should know . . . ” 

6 1 don’t want to know anything—I want you.” 

“I have no money, nor family, nor friends . . .” 

“You are all I want—I tell you, Gretchen,” he cried 
vehemently, “you’ve entered into my very blood! I need 
you, and I must have you. I can’t be reasonable. I know 
I’m insane—drunk with you—but I can’t help it—I don’t 
want to help it!” 

. . . Now, breathe deeply—that’s it! Now again 
. . . You’re going to sleep, Gretchen. You’re going to 
sleep. ... So easy! . . . 























BOOK FOUR 


I 

We were married at the Little Church Around the 
Corner. Afterwards, DuVal took me to Atlantic City for 
a week while his house was being put in order. 

At the time of his first marriage, he had bought a place 
in the Westchester hills near Mount Vernon where he had 
continued to live since his divorce, keeping indifferent 
bachelor’s quarters. 

I wanted to go there at once, but DuVal would not hear 
of it. 

“I wouldn’t for the world,” he refused. “Jemmett has 
orders to get a woman in and have everything in apple pie 
order by Saturday. I want your homecoming to be as 
nearly perfect as possible, sweetheart!” 

No one had ever called me sweetheart but Jake—at the 
word I flinched and drew back ever so slightly from my 
husband’s arms. 

DuVal employed love words constantly, and sometimes 
teased me because of my undemonstrativeness. 

“I love you, too,” he would mimic my diffident declara¬ 
tion. “Is that all you have to say to me?” 

From the day I had promised to marry him, I moved as 
one in a trance. 

The challenging words of the clergyman dropped upon 
149 


150 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


my consciousness from a great distance. They were 
meaningless—unreal. My husband’s passionate love- 
making, our week of luxurious idling by the sea were 
unreal—and I, the unrealest thing of all. 

I accepted everything unquestioningly as one does when 
coming out of a long illness. I smiled on the world and 
found it good, though, as yet, I seemed to have no vital 
connection with it. 

DuVal scolded me indulgently because of my passive¬ 
ness, but he was not really concerned. He attributed it to 
the shyness of the unawakened schoolgirl that he persisted 
in thinking me. But I was not a schoolgirl, I was a 
woman—redblooded, throbbing with unsatisfied desire. 

For DuVal I felt only a great tenderness and gratitude. 
His kisses left me unstirred, smilingly receptive. 

I rather think that he was too epicurean, over-refined. 
The sharp edge was gone from his appetite which could 
now be stimulated only by the new and the piquant. While 
I was—well, an untutored barbarian. 

I went through the week dreamily, sunk in a not un¬ 
pleasant, coma-like state. It was only on Saturday when 
I saw my home for the first time that I awoke to some¬ 
thing akin to realization. 

The house was of grey stucco, redroofed, with casement 
windows. It stood in the exact center of a close-clipped 
lawn, unbroken by shrubs or flower beds. 

From the wide steps, a paved walk led down to the 
street. 

“Oh,” I cried almost fearfully, as DuVal helped me from 
the car, “aren’t there any trees?” 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


151 


He smiled at me proudly, possessively. 

“Yes, indeed, in the back yard,” he reassured me. 
“Oh,” I cried again, relieved. 


II 

My household consisted of four persons: DuVal and 
me, Jemmett, the negro man who cleaned and butlered, 
and Emmy, the cook, a preposterously fat Irish woman 
with a round, red face like the full moon, a little upturned 
nose, and a tongue that never ceased except when her head 
was buried in the big stew-pan of tea which she kept 
always at hand. 

There was a little colored boy, by name, Eric, who came 
in on Thursdays to wait at table while Jemmett took his 
“afternoon off.” But Eric never became an integral part 
of our menage. 

He was a sly, preternaturally solemn child with ambi¬ 
tions. He attended school regularly and boasted a bowing 
acquaintance with the French language which latter fact 
was a constant source of amusement for the other 
servants. 

Emmy always addressed him as “Mon-soor” when she 
was in a good humor, and as “little sneakin’ divil” when 
she was at outs, which seldom occurred unless she had 
tippled a bit too freely the night before. 

“God bless ye,” she cried emotionally when I shook 
hands with her on arriving. “You have red hair; we’ll 
get on well, I’m sure!” 


152 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


“Red hair,” we overheard Jemmett saying scornfully 
as DuVal and I left the kitchen, “her hair ain’t red.” 

“What color is it, if it isn’t red then?” Emmy 
challenged. 

“Well—well, it ain’t red,” Jemmett stammered. “It’s 
mo’ like the color of new pennies,” he finished 
triumphantly. 

Our house was two stories high with a basement in 
which were laundry, furnace room and servants’ quarters. 

On the top floor were four bedrooms: DuVal’s and mine 
with their connecting bath, separated by a square hallway 
from the others which were used as guest rooms. Each 
of these had its bath attached. 

My husband’s room where I went first to remove hat 
and wraps (my room was to be re-decorated) was fur¬ 
nished in massive walnut. The walls, almost concealed 
under the profusion of pictures in which etchings pre¬ 
dominated, were papered in sand grey. 

The only vivid note in the room was the rug, a deep 
velvet, the color of blood, that covered the entire floor. 

His writing desk, set between two windows at the front, 
held a number of objects in jade and ebony, queerly and 
intricately carved. 

In the center was a miniature, exquisitely framed in 
ivory. 

“My mother,” BuVal whispered, a tone creeping into his 
voice that I had never heard there before. 

I bent over the desk and gazed at the face of a woman, 
lovelier in its purity of outline than any I had ever seen. 
Startling in its creamy pallor, the great, velvety eyes 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


153 


looked back at me with a tragic questioning in their depths 
that stirred me unbearably. The hair was brushed back 
from the broad forehead in a sweep of dead black. The 
lips were thin, but beautifully modeled—a thread of vivid 
scarlet, they seemed to hold all sadness, all tolerance, all 
wisdom in their flow of line. 

I turned away without speaking, but DuVal seemed to 
understand. 

“That and this are my most prized possessions—after 
you,” he said softly taking up something from the desk 
that I had not noticed before. 

It was a Christ on the Cross in ivory. One saw the 
tense, tortured muscles, the straining throat full of 
groans, the brow knotted in agony. 

“It’s very rare—very wonderful,” DuVal was saying. 

“It’s terrible,” I cried in a passion of revulsion, putting 
out my hands as if to shut the thing from my sight. “I 
can’t look at it—please!” 

He replaced his treasure on the desk, looking at me 
curiously. _ 

“My mother was a Catholic—I believe you are a pagan, 
Gretchen.” 

I made no answer. The dim, luxurious room with the 
tortured Christ, the sad, beautiful woman, oppressed me. 

It was with a great relief that I followed DuVal into 
the cream and blue bareness of the room that was to be 
mine. 

It had four windows through which the pale sunlight 
was streaming, unchecked by curtains. A door at the 


154 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


back opened on a little screened verandah, overhanging 
the sloping hillside that was our back lawn. 

“I should like it to be all in white and silver with 
perhaps a black satin bed-cover—How would you like 
that, Gretchen, love?” DuVal asked musingly. 

“Oh, no,” I protested. “I want color, and yet more 
color!” 

“Then color you shall have,” he answered indulgently, 
drawing me into his arms with a gesture of unrestrained 
passion. “It is yours, for you to do with as you like,” 
he said, kissing my hair and throat and lips, “just as I 
am.” 

“Now, let’s look at the other rooms,” I suggested* 
presently. 

“Temporizer,” he laughed, releasing me. 

We went downstairs, arm in arm, to inspect the rest of 
the house. 

The first floor contained kitchen, dining room, pantries, 
living room and library. 

The dining room and the living room were well-fur¬ 
nished, pleasant enough, but without character. Only in 
the library had DuVal left the imprint of his personality. 

It was a low, rectangular room, girdled by bookcases, 
filled to overflowing. In the quick survey I made of the 
books, I saw that many were in French and German, and 
that even the English titles were, in the main, curiously 
unfamiliar to me. 

On two sides of the room, a line of windows extended 
along the top of the bookcases. The third wall was broken 
by a big stone fireplace. Above the mantel, an oil painting 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


155 


of DuVal’s mother smiled at us enigmatically with dark, 
unsatisfied eyes. 

But the most striking feature of the room was a col¬ 
lection of ancient swords, daggers, stilettoes—knives of 
all descriptions, that hung over the bookcases along the 
fourth wall. 

Wrought in brass and gold and silver, with steel blades 
that reflected the firelight in cruel, reddish gleams, they 
drew me irresistibly. 

“My third, and last hobby,” DuVal explained, “carv¬ 
ings, etchings, and these!” 

I stood looking at them, attracted, and at the same 
time repelled. 

Suddenly it flashed over me that DuVal affected me 
much as they did. I was attracted to him and at the 
same time repelled by hints of a character so different 
from my own that we could meet on common grounds of 
interest at few points. 

“Come away,” he said at last, laughingly, “or you’ll get 
the fever too!” 

I smiled at him and wandered back to the living room 
windows, looking out on the back lawn with its velvety 
turf and the three elm trees. 

DuVal joined me. 

“We’ll plant irises down there,” I said absently, point¬ 
ing to the foot of a rock wall at the boundary of our 
place where the soil showed in a moist black streak, defiant 
of the grass. 

“What a domestic little thing it is,” DuVal teased me. 
“Do you like your home, dearest?” 


156 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


I thought of the rooms, now showing evidences of lack 
of care, but which I should soon make my own. They 
would become livable under my planning—my touch. I 
thought of my father, of Alicia, of Mr. Grimble, of 
Madeline Montrose. I thought of Emmy and Jemmett. 
A great wave of peace came rushing over me. I had a 
home! This man had taken me from nothing and given 
me a home! 

I turned and flung my arms about his neck with the 
first show of deep feeling I had displayed since our 
marriage. 

“Oh, so much, so much,” I whispered close to his ear. 
“I can’t tell you how much!” 

m 

mr 

I spent the first two or three months of my married life 
in a fever of decorating. Everywhere new hangings were 
needed, my room had to be done over entirely—there was 
scarcely a spot that did not cry aloud for attention. 
With the exception of DuVal’s bedroom and the library, 
the house resembled a hotel more than a home. It showed 
that it had been slept in and eaten in, but not really lived 
in for a long time. 

DuVal had plunged heart and soul into business. He 
left before I was up in the morning, indignantly refusing 
to have me wakened, and sometimes it was seven o’clock 
before he returned in the evening. He was one of the part¬ 
ners in an exporting concern that had its offices on 
Whitehall Street. More than this I could not get out of 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


157 


him. He persisted in his old-school idea that the less 
women knew of business the better for everybody included. 

Because I wanted so greatly to help, I made a few 
efforts at winning his confidence, but on each of these 
occasions, he was so plainly irritated that I soon dropped 
into the role of helpless womanhood which he had assigned 
to me. 

“Don’t bother your beautiful head with sordid things,” 
he told me. “I’m not a millionaire, but I have money 
enough to give you what you want without your worrying 
the least bit.” 

Hurt by his lack of understanding, I never again 
referred to the export house, nor did he ever vouchsafe 
any information. 

Once or twice, I met him at his office when we were 
going to dinner in town, but these visits were rare. 
the whole, his life outside was as much a mystery to me as 
my father’s had been when I was a little girl. 

He made me a generous allowance, insisted that I should 
be always well-dressed, and scarcely a week passed that 
he did not bring me some present—a silver box for my 
trinkets—a yard of rare old lace—a filigree vase a 
string of Venetian beads. 

I was very happy with my house and yard, my brows¬ 
ings in DuVal’s books, but there was a lack that I could 
not define. 

The impression of unreality persisted. I sometimes had 
the feeling that I was in a state of suspended animation. 

Women called on me. We were invited out constantly, 


158 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


but there seemed to be nothing that touched me—that 
proclaimed itself mine. 

“Did I play bridge? . . .No!” 

Well, they must teach me. 

The scrupulous sweatered correctness of these women! 
. . . Their well-bred, joyless laughter, their talk cut to a 
single pattern like their clothes, pattered on me like so 
much fish food—thin, wafery, unsubstantial. 

Marjorie Tremain was different. She wore the pre¬ 
scribed clothes, did the prescribed things, talked the 
prescribed talk, but always with a mocking eye turned on 
herself as if she found the prescriptions rather ridiculous 
and wondered why she bothered. 

She took both my hands in hers when she left and looked 
at me with mocking tenderness—the mockery for herself, 
on account of the tenderness she showed for me. 

‘Tm glad you’ve come, Gretchen,” she said. “Don’t 
let us overpower you. You’re quite different—and those 
we can’t standardize, we rend limb from limb—but—well, 
you can choose which you prefer! I’d hate to see you 
standardized.” 

She gave my fingers a last warm squeeze and was gone. 
Her long strides ate up the walk in a dozen steps. At 
the street, she turned, looked back at me standing on the 
verandah, and waved cheerfully. 

I went into the house slowly, puzzling over her words. 

Certainly I did not want to be rended limb from limb, 
but, did I want to become fish food? 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


159 


IV 

DuVa:l cared little for society. In this respect we were 
congenial. Evening after evening, we begged off from 
some party or other. He, to sit before the library fire, 
staring at the picture of his mother, reading one of the 
big volumes, or toying with his hobbies. 

I usually crept away early to my own room with a> 
book. In the day-time I loved to sit in the library, but 
when DuVal was there, I had a sense of intruding. The 
room was so entirely his, he dominated it so completely, 
and I felt that there he liked to be alone. 

On Saturday nights there was always a poker game in 
the library. The regular crowd, four or five business men 
of our acquaintance, arrived soon after dinner and from 
then until nearly daybreak the rattle of chips and the 
clink of glasses mingled with excited bursts of talk and 
laughter drifted up to me. 

On these occasions, DuVal became a different person. 
His air of quiet melancholy was replaced by a glittering 
feverishness of manner. He talked a great deal, was in¬ 
tensely restless, and during dinner kept poor Jemmett in 
what the latter termed “a stew.” 

If DuVal lost, he went about for days in a state of 
profound and uneasy gloom. He was incredibly super¬ 
stitious, and it was less the loss of money than a feeling 
that fate was against him, which caused his perturbation. 

On the other hand, if he won, he would come bursting 
into my room, intoxicated with success, wake me excitedly 


160 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


to tell of his triumph. Then there was nothing that could 
resist him. His self-confidence was magnificent. 

‘Til win the world for you, Gretchen,” he once cried. 
“I’m the prince of magicians! The cards were submissive 
—they recognized their master to-night, and so shall you, 
my girl!” 

The coins rained over me in little silvery tinkles, the 
bills fluttered wildly about like feathers plucked from a 
bird—He poured it all upon me—smilingly contemptuous. 

“Buy a gold chain for yourself, and I’ll fasten you to 
my wrist with it, you soft, luminous, untouched creature 
—Oh, God! Why are you so remote! My wife—pah! 
You’ve never been mine. But now you shall be, for now 
I am all-powerful—greater than God—much greater!” 

DuVal was very drunk. He never showed the effects of 
his drinking unless he won. 

“But how can I love you in this place that smells of 
geraniums and clover fields ?” he muttered fretfully with a 
glance at the pale yellow walls of my room. “My love 
is crimson poppies and orchids and nightshade—my love 
is glorious death!” 

He swept me out of bed, heedless of my protests, car¬ 
ried me in his strong arms through the bath into his own 
room. 

A red-shaded light burned over the desk—bathed the 
Christ in a shower of blood. . . . 

“My love is glorious death!” . . . 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


161 


V 

One Saturday evening I went into the library on some 
errand and found DuVal in his usual place, staring 
moodily into the flames. 

In his hand he held a dagger with richly ornamented 
gold handle and curving blade. 

He looked up and smiled as I entered. 

“Does this speak to you,” he asked quizzically, holding 
out the weapon before him. 

“Of you, perhaps,” I tried to answer. 

“Of me? That is right.” 

He seemed pleased. 

“In a way, it is me, because it speaks to me of myself.— 
There’s nothing so sophisticated as a dagger, it is the very 
essence of subtle refinement. How many lovely breasts 
has it explored, do you think? To how many turbulent 
hearts has it brought peace . . . ?” 

His fingers caressed the thin blade down to its point. 

“There’s nothing superfluous about a dagger—look at 
that! It’s like a slender, beautiful woman, exquisite, com¬ 
plete. . . . My mother was like that—and you are, too, 
Gretchen.” 

“So you make love to your daggers,” I teased. 

“No,” he answered seriously, “my daggers make love 
to me.” 

His mood was strangely unlike the usual Saturday 
night hectic gaiety. 

“Are you worried about anything?” I ventured. 

“No, why?” he asked, surprised. 


162 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


“I just wondered. . . .” 

“Oh, Gretchen,” he said with an air of just remem¬ 
bering, “I want you to come down to-night for a few 
minutes. There’s a chap I want you to meet—he’s just 
back from a trip to the coast. Minton Collins—we’ve 
been friends a long time.” 

Most of DuVal’s friends were as exhilarating as cold 
boiled potatoes. I did not dislike them, but there was 
something in their manner that I resented vaguely. They 
made me extravagant compliments that always wound up 
by describing DuVal as a “lucky fellow.” They might 
have used the same tone in congratulating him on a case 
of choice Scotch. 

And he would sit, complacent, smiling at me posses¬ 
sively with his intense eyes. 

Then, I had not begun to think or analyze. Indeed, it 
was long before I arrived at the point where I could for¬ 
mulate my own thoughts even imperfectly. But I re¬ 
ceived keen impressions none the less. I stored up all 
sorts of seemingly irrelevant matter into some obscure 
corner of my mind. 

I ate and ate, as a cow does, and afterwards, lay down 
quietly to chew. 

I speculated about what sort of person DuVal’s friend 
would prove to be. It was evident that my husband was 
anxious for me to make a good impression. 

But I was not at all prepared for the tall, blond man 
who rose to greet me with boyish warmth when I entered. 

Mint Collins reminded me of Jake. As our hands met, 
a spark leapt between us. In that moment an under- 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


163 


standing was established. I knew that we would be 
friends. 

Duval was watching me closely, but it was only when 
drinks were served and Mr. Collins proposed a toast that 
I began to suspect his surveillance was due to another 
reason than concern that we should like each other. 

“Oh, Gretchen never drinks,” DuVal interposed hur¬ 
riedly. 

“But I might this once,” I suggested amiably, “since 
it’s a very special occasion!” 

“Thank you,” said Mint Collins bowing to me. 

“To your happiness—may it last a thousand years,” 
he went on, raising his glass dramatically. 

From his place on the other side of the fireplace, DuVal 
gave me a dark, unfathomable look that filled me with 
indefinable uneasiness. 


VI 

In June, DuVal went to Maine for a week’s fishing. 
He was done up, he said, with the strain of business wor¬ 
ries. No, he did not want me to accompany him. 

“It’s the roughest kind of living, sweetheart; you 
couldn’t stand a day of it.” 

I doubted this, but on the whole I rather looked for¬ 
ward to a week alone. 

DuVal had been losing steadily at cards and his de¬ 
pression had hung over the house like a thunder-cloud. 
I think his flight was due to this more than to business 


worries. 


164 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


Saturday afternoon, Mint Collins came over in his road¬ 
ster to take DuVal to their club for a few hours* golf. 

It was the first time I had seen him since we met. 

“'Where have you been, Mrs. Archer?” he demanded of 
me. “Surely, you don’t sleep all the time. When I ask 
about you, DuVal always says you’ve gone to your 
room.” 

“And do I have to sleep when I’m in my room?” 

“Well—” he laughed, “of course, not. But why don’t 
you ever come down and sponsor the game, even if you 
won’t play?” 

“Oh, Gretchen doesn’t like cards,” DuVal explained, 
coming out on the verandah where we were sitting. “In 
fact, I’m sometimes afraid that she doesn’t even like card 
players.” 

Mint Collins looked at me. 

‘Do you really object?” he asked with concern. “Then 
I say, it’s awfully mean of us to come here every week and 
make you run away to your room!” 

“I don’t mind cards—or card players,” I denied with a 
smiling glance at DuVal. “It’s only the occasional effect 
of the former on the latter that worries me!” 

DuVal flushed a dark red. Collins looked so uncomfort¬ 
able that I regretted my speech at once. 

“Well, no cards tonight as I’m leaving at nine-ten for 
the great solitude,” DuVal said. “Come on, old chap.” 

He threw an arm affectionately about his friend’s shoul¬ 
ders. Collins hesitated. 

“Wouldn’t you like to go, Mrs. Archer, we could play 
a few holes and then have tea at the club-house?” 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


165 


“I think not, thank you.” 

“Thank God, my wife is not one of these horsey women,” 
DuVal exclaimed. “She doesn’t care about aping men’s 
clothes and men’s sports. You’re a real woman—aren’t 
you, dear?” 

He bent over me where I lay in the hammock and kissed 
me with smiling eyes. It was the first time he had ever 
been at all demonstrative before other people and I 
shrank uncomfortable from his caress. 

But Mint Collins had turned away and was staring at 
some remote object on the horizon. 

They went off together, DuVal’s arm across the shoul¬ 
ders of the other. 

I looked after them—noticed that Collins towered 
above my husband—felt a quick rush of shame at mak¬ 
ing the comparison—hated myself for both! 

DuVal left at nine. At the last minute he clung to me, 
exacting vows, protesting his love in terms that sounded 
extravagant to my even-pulsed affection. 

When he had gone, I went into the library and picked 
up a book. But I could not read. His presence haunted 
the room, watchful—suspicious. I fell into a sort of 
reverie. 

“I am I—Gretchen Archer. . . That is my name. . . 
I am married to DuVal who has gone to Maine for the 
fishing.” 

How queer, words! 

“This is a chair.” I touched it, but solidity seemed to 


166 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


have gone from the object. It was not real. Only my 
touch was real. 

“These are my breasts. . . . This long length of bone 
and white flesh is my thigh.” But the flesh and bone 
were not real. Only my touch was real. 

“That is a table—a mantel—a portrait.” But they 
were not real. Only my sight was real. 

“Those are books—unrealities into which men have 
stored the only realities. . . . This room is not a room. 
... It is something less—and more—than a room.” 

And now the room and all its solid objects seemed to 
whirl fantastically about me ..... seemed to rise and 
float out of my consciousness. My body, too, seemed to 
have withered away and left only a core of questioning 
sensation behind. That and the smile of the portrait over 
the mantel were the only realities. 

The smile was not seen. It was felt. Nor was it in any 
way connected with the lips or the woman. It was a fact 
—just that smile. 

“Did you, too, question and doubt—and did you find the 
answer at last?” I pleaded aloud. “Oh, I am in such a 
maze—but there must be a way out. Things must mean 
something. Somewhere there must be keen feeling and 
conviction. Tha'; is it! I have no conviction. I do not 
really care. What has numbed me, body and mind?” 

The smile remained—enigmatic—negative—but living! 

“But why do trees come to leaf every year—Why do 
fruits ripen? Why, if I were an apple tree, I would not 
bloom or bear apples. I would not have sufficient convic¬ 
tion ... I am barren—barren . . . But, I am beauti- 



WINDOWS FACING WEST 


167 


ful. That must have some meaning. . . . But you were 
beautiful, too! And Jake was beautiful! Even death is 
sometimes beautiful!” 

I came to myself with a great wrench. Feeling flowed 
again through my body. The room became just a room. 
Its furnishings became chairs and books and tables. 

I looked around, consoled by solidity. My soul was 
comforted by obviousness. 

I opened the book on my lap. The pages fell apart at a 
place where the margin was crossed with delicate, spidery 
writing: 

“Mother of God, how long! So hard I try—and it is 
no use. Always the same! Love of my body, yes— 
but what of my soul? Oh, my son—my little son—if it 
were not for you . . .!” 

The dark eyes of the portrait gazed at me with tragic 
understanding. “I, too,” they seemed to say. 

But the lips remained as unrevealing as before. 

VII 

Marjorie Tremain and I had become great friends. 
Hardly a day passed that she did not come drifting in 
nonchalantly, to spend an hour or two with me. 

She would fling herself into a chair or across a lounge, 
produce the inevitable cigarette and, with the smoke curl¬ 
ing snake-like from her nostrils, she would begin the con¬ 
versation. 

“How does it feel to be absolutely happy?” she asked 
me abruptly one day. 


168 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


“I—don’t—know.” 

“Hear, hear,” she cried mockingly. “The bride of 
eight months doesn’t know how it feels to be happy!” 

“Absolutely happy,” I corrected her. 

“Oh, of course, if you’re going to split hairs . . .!” 
She twisted about on the lounge and looked at me intently. 
“But, are you happy, Gretchen? I’m such an inquisitive 
person.” 

“Yes—I don’t know! Who is? And, after all, when 
you’re absolutely happy, doesn’t it mean the end of 
growth ?” 

“Oh, it never lasts long enough to stunt your growth,” 
she replied cynically. “I should have thought—DuVal 
is so enamored of you, and you sit here so steadily in 
your lovers’ paradise—But, then, you never can tell!” 

“DuVal is wonderful to me. It has nothing to do with 
him,” I hastened to say. “But, don’t you think, Marjorie, 
that no matter what one has, one always wants something 
more—or different?” 

“Absolutely,” she agreed, waiting for me to go on. 

But I could not explain what I meant, because, as yet, 
I myself did not fully understand. So I asked her a 
question. 

“Are you happy, Marjorie?” 

“Oh, so-so. I won fifteen dollars at bridge this after¬ 
noon. Ellis’ business is going big. He gives me a decent 
allowance, and is reasonably faithful to me. I’m getting 
a new automobile this month and spending July and 
August at East Hampton—unless I change my plans. 
Don’t you think I should be happy?” 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


169 


“Undoubtedly,” I replied. 

“Well, Pm not!” 

Marjorie sat bolt upright, her mockery suddenly gone. 

“For this is the divine joke of it: All that I have is 
pleasant enough, but I’d give it up without one regret, 
if I could have—Don’t laugh, Gretchen—if I could have 
children!” 

“I wasn’t going to laugh.” 

“Well, I shouldn’t blame you, if you did laugh. I 
think it’s screamingly funny. To think that I’d want 
four or five howling nuisances around all the time! To 
think that I’d be willing to live in a Harlem flat and 
have my husband go out every morning with a tin dinner 
pail, if he could give them to me! Why don’t you laugh, 
Gretchen?” 

“Because I don’t feel like laughing, dear.” 

“Do you want children?” 

I shook my head slowly after a moment’s pause. 

Marjorie laughed, a little hysterically. 

“Nor does anyone else but me! I swear, I’m the only 
woman God created with this longing—beside it, men 
mean nothing—and I can’t ever have what I want most 
in the world!” 

“But . . . ,” I began. 

“Exactly—but!” 

“I married Ellis when I was nineteen—just out of a 
convent. It was a most satisfactory arrangement. I had 
the social position. He had the money. Everything 
might have turned out well, but for a woman in Chicago. 


170 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


Ellis was just a kid—he got out of the mess all right. 
But he can’t—He told me all about it.” 

“He told you?” 

“After we were married!” 

“Then why,” I began, and stopped. It had been on the 
tip of my tongue to ask why she didn’t get a divorce, but 
I remembered that things could not always be disposed 
of so easily. 

Marjorie read my thought. 

“You forget,” she said. “I had the social position. 
One can’t live on that indefinitely.” 

“No,” I said irrelevantly, “it’s like virtue. Only rich 
women can afford it—and they don’t have to.” 

“Besides,” Marjorie added as if that settled it, “I’m 
a Catholic.” 

She rose with a return of her old manner. 

“Heigh-ho, you mustn’t take me too seriously, you 
green-eyed witch! I’m not nearly as miserable as I’ve 
been pretending. There is a little of the dramatist in all 
of us, I think, that makes us love to create tense situa¬ 
tions ! I haven’t even the consolation of a great sorrow, 
so I magnify my whine. As a matter of fact, I like my 
husks, and if I had the Harlem flat and the honest work¬ 
ing man, I’d probably dynamite the whole concern in a 
week!” 

“Yes, I think you probably would,” I agreed. “But 
that doesn’t alter the facts of the case.” 

“Well, since you insist on my remaining a tragic 
figure, I suppose I shall have to be one! But, in that case, 
I must drown my sorrow in a greater tragedy. ... Will 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


171 


you go in to the theatre with me tomorrow night? Ellis 
abominates everything but musical comedies!” 

“DuVal’s coming on Sunday,” I hesitated. 

“Silly! Tomorrow’s only Saturday. I’ll get you back 
before Sunday afternoon.” 

“All right—I’d love to. I haven’t been to town in 
a month.” 

“I know! It’s the talk of the town. . . . DuVal’s sud¬ 
den disinclination for society. Why, before he married 
you, he was the shining social light of our crowd, and now 
he refuses to leave home for any party, however gay! 
How do you do it?” 

“I? You mean that DuVal used to like to go out? Do 
you think . . . ?” 

“My dear, I think nothing,” Marjorie exclaimed, “ex¬ 
cept that your husband is very much in love with you 
and very properly refuses to cast his pearl before swine 
. . . which is, of course, hard on the swine, but undoubt¬ 
edly the wiser course! Now say you forgive me for pour¬ 
ing my tale of woe into your sympathetic ears—and then 
I’ll betake myself homeward!” 

She stood very close to me. There was an undercurrent 
of sweet intimacy between us. Say what she might, noth¬ 
ing could change that. I was drawn irresistibly to this 
woman, braver than I, who could make a mockery of her 
unhappiness. For a long moment we stood there—closer 
than mother and daughter—closer than sisters—closer 
than friends. 

Mar jorie leaned down and kissed me swiftly on the lips. 

“I love you, Gretchen.” 


172 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


I pressed close to her, felt her heart beating with my 
heart; the fragrances of our bodies blended in an indis¬ 
tinguishable harmony. The two fires that were our souls 
seemed to become fused in that moment of perfect under¬ 
standing. 

“Surely,” I thought, “this is reality!” 

VIII 

When we entered the theatre on Saturday evening, 
we found Mint Collins occupying the seat next to ours. 

Marjorie was apparently as surprised as I. 

“Well, this is pleasant,” she exclaimed with her mock¬ 
ing twinkle. “How could you guess where we’d be sit¬ 
ting?” 

“Well, now I wonder,” Collins returned blithely. 

I was left in doubt as to whether it had been prear¬ 
ranged or not. 

Certainly they had a great deal to say to each other. 
Marjorie kept her eyes resolutely fixed on the stage, but 
Mint Collins hardly seemed to be aware of anything but 
her. He talked in a low tone close to her ear, seemed 
to be pleading with her. Occasionally, she shook her 
head decidedly, and once or twice she turned to answer 
him, but most of the time she looked straight ahead with 
that ironic smile of hers just touching the corner of her 
lips. 

As for me, I was too busy speculating on this new 
turn of affairs to give more than a perfunctory atten¬ 
tion to the play. It would have been an embarrassing situ- 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


173 


ation had I not known Marjorie so well. As it was, I 
felt distinctly flattered—and touched—at this proof of 
her confidence in me. Mint Collins I had liked since our 
first meeting and when I compared him with paunchy, self- 
assertive Ellis Tremain, I wondered that Marjorie could 
hesitate a moment between them, if she were in love with 
Mint, as I suspected was the case. Then I remembered 
her words of the afternoon before: 

“Besides, I am a Catholic.” 

Poor Marjorie! 

But Collins was more to be pitied. She, at least, had 
her faith to console her, while he could only beat his head 
despairingly against that strong bulwark—impatient— 
not understanding. 

During the intermissions, conversation became general. 
They both turned to me with the air of seeking release. 
We discussed plays—past and present—books we had 
read—suburban idiosyncrasies—but not once were per¬ 
sonal topics permitted to obtrude themselves. If one 
showed its head, it was instantly stamped on by the three 
of us. 

A revolver shot rang out—the dying heroine fell into 
the arms of her lover whom she had betrayed. The cur¬ 
tain dropped on the last act. 

Marjorie sighed ecstatically. 

“I adore tragedies,” she said, ‘they make me feel so 
hopeful. Don’t you, Gretchen, dear?” 

“Yes,” I answered. “That proves that there is still 
hope for us.” 

“I suppose that hope has departed when one gets to the 


174 WINDOWS FACING WEST 

point where one can enjoy nothing but musical comedies 

-” She laughed suddenly-“like Ellis. 

How are you going home, Mint?” 

“Eleven-forty,” he answered laconically. 

“Oh, that’s silly,” Marjorie protested. “Come go with 
us. There’s loads of room, and with Gretchen and Ever¬ 
ett along, it will be perfectly respectable!” 

“Heaven knows I don’t have to be persuaded,” he re¬ 
plied, “but why can’t we go somewhere first for a bite to 
eat?” 

Marjorie hesitated a second. 

“I don’t know—oh, why not!” 

She looked inquiringly at me. I nodded. 

Collins gave an address to the impassive Everett, and 
we crawled down Broadway in a jam of slow-moving auto¬ 
mobiles that looked for all the world like a collection of 
venerable turtles. 

“I will not dance on a revolving floor,” Marjorie re¬ 
fused, “it makes me dizzy just to look at it—You go on, 
Gretchen. I know you are young enough to be thrilled 
by it!” 

“At least a year younger than you,” I scoffed. 

“Nine,” she groaned, “nine! Take her away, Mint. 
You young things enjoy yourselves. I am not uncon¬ 
soled.” 

She lighted one of her long cigarettes and we left her 
contentedly inhaling. 

“Isn’t she splendid—Marjorie?” said Mint Collins. 

“She is—I love her.” 

“So do I.” 




WINDOWS FACING WEST 


175 


He made the admission honestly, but with something 
of a boy’s shy diffidence. 

“I want to talk to you sometime, Gretchen,” he went 
on using my first name naturally. “You can see how 
things are—Marjorie’s crazy about you, says you are 
the most wonderful person in the world and all that. 
Would you—I wonder if you’d mind giving me some 
advice ?” 

“If you think it would be worth anything,” I replied 
doubtfully. 

“Then I’ll ring you some afternoon soon, if I may— 
I’d like to see you alone, of course.” 

“All right,” I agreed. “I’d be so glad to help, if I 
could.” 

We lingered over supper until nearly one. Marjorie 
professed herself appalled at the late hour. 

“But Everett can get us home in twenty minutes, so 
we won’t be too disgraceful,” she added. 

But, in spite of Everett’s skilful driving, it was half 
an hour later before we reached Mount Vernon. 

We dropped Mint at the apartment house where he 
lived in solitary state. 

“Goodnight, Marjorie, thank you—goodnight, Gret¬ 
chen, I’ll be seeing you soon.” 

“Oh, Gretchen,” Marjorie cried, all her brave defenses 
broken down. “Oh, Gretchen, I’m such a fool—I love him 
so!” 

“Please don’t cry—you aren’t a fool. How can you 
help loving him?” 

“I’m so wicked,” she sobbed, her head on my shoulder. 


176 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


“Nonsense!” I spoke crisply to bring her to herself. 
It would never do for her to go home red-eyed from 
weeping. 

The car drew up in front of my door. 

“Why don’t you come in and stay with me tonight,” I 
suggested, “tomorrow’s Sunday and we could sleep late— 
you’ll feel better then.” 

“I have to go to church,” she murmured, wiping her 
eyes. 

“Can’t you stay away just this once?” 

“Stay away from church,” she cried in a shocked tone. 
“Why, if I didn’t go to church, it would be a mortal sin 
on my soul!” 

Marjorie had regained her air of banter, but I realized 
that she spoke with conviction. 

“I’m all right,” she smiled. “Good night, and thank 
you, dear.” 

I went into the house, pondering over this new de¬ 
velopment. 

Marjorie weeping for Mint—Mint, bewildered at the 
situation in which he found himself, blindly trying to 
discover the solution—longing for sympathy which he 
quaintly phrased “advice”. 

It would not have been easy at best, but there was 
Marjorie’s religion with its stern tenets that she could 
not ignore. Her religion that restrained, and at the same 
time comforted her! The jailor that made prison endur¬ 
able! 

Jemmett had left lights for me (I had told him not to 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


177 


wait up) and I went about turning them off before going 
up to my room. 

As I reached the top of the stairs, I caught a gleam 
of light that came from under the door of DuVal’s room. 
For a moment I was startled. A scream rose to my lips. 

Then the door opened and my husband appeared, smil¬ 
ing, but very pale. 

“DuVal,” I exclaimed. “I didn’t expect you until to¬ 
morrow !” 

“That,” he remarked coldly, “is evident.” 

“What do you mean?” I asked, surprised at his tone. 

“Come in. We can discuss our marital difficulties more 
conveniently in private.” 

I had not the faintest idea of what he meant by “marital 
difficulties,” but I followed him obediently into his room. 

“Sit down,” he ordered curtly, pointing to a deep chair 
near the desk. 

I noticed that the floor was covered with burnt matches 
and cigarette ashes—the desk was in wild disorder—DuVal 
was coatless and his soft shirt was unbuttoned at the 
throat—his hair looked as if it had not been brushed 
for days. 

He followed my glance. 

“You see the evidences of seven hours of torture,” he 
told me. “For seven hours I’ve paced up and down this 
room, tormented with thoughts of you—wondering where 
and with whom you were—expecting you every minute, 
though I knew you would not come.” 

He came very close to me. 

“Men do such little things on account of women they 


178 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


happen to love. And, by God, there’s not one of you soft, 
deadly parasites that’s worth a second thought.” His 
voice rose high on a note of hysteria. “Not a damned 
one of you,” he repeated. “What do you care what a man 
feels so long as you can batten on him? Nothing!” 

“Perhaps you’d better stop and explain what you re 
talking about,” I suggested icily. 

“Stop—explain! My God! She comes in at two o’clock 
in the morning, and then asks me to ‘explain ! Do you 
think I’m a fool? It’s you who would better explain!” 

“Should I have sent you a telegram asking permission 
to go to the theatre with Mrs. Tremain,” I asked, trying 
hard to keep my temper. 

“So you went to the theatre with Mrs. Tremain—How 

do I know that you did?.How do I know that 

you didn’t go with someone you—met on the street?” 

I leapt to my feet as if struck by a lash. 

“You—unspeakable—cad! How dare you insinuate 
such things about me, things that you know are lies! 

“How do I dare?” DuVal was apparently enjoying 
the sight of my helpless fury. He was now calm—smiling, 
even. “Well, if personal experience counts for any¬ 
thing. . . 

I did not give him a chance to finish. 

Half crazed with rage, I flew into my room and slammed 
the door behind me. 

IX 

As I flung myself across the bed, I heard a low chuckle 
from the next room—such a sound, I thought, as might be 



WINDOWS FACING WEST 179 

made by a fiend in hell on the arrival of a new consign¬ 
ment of lost souls. 

For a while, I could not think. My mind was seething 
with hate to the exclusion of all else. DuVal had struck 
at the one vulnerable spot in my armor. No matter how 
I conducted myself, he would always have that taunt to 
fling at me. It made no difference that, aside from the 
unconventionality of our meeting, there had been nothing 
between us for which he could reproach me. 

As always when under the stress of overwhelming emo¬ 
tion, I felt that the only way to get relief would be to 
do physical violence to the object of my hate. My 
fingers opened and shut spasmodically, longing for the 
feel of that dark throat between them. 

How long I lay there with murder in my heart, I do 
not know. Never before had I been so angry, not even 
with my father, or Madeline Montrose, because never be¬ 
fore had I been so helpless. 

That was it! DuVal realized my helplessness, or he 
never would have dared to speak as he had done. If he 
had known I could walk out of his house, secure in the 
knowledge that I could live without him, he would have 
used more discretion in his choice of words. Why, he 
who was one of the most earnest apostles of “woman’s 
womanliness” at heart scorned me for the very thing he 
had tried to nurture in me—“dependence.” 

What had he said? “—soft, deadly parasites—so long 
as you can batten on him. . . .” 

They all scorned women for their dependence. 

That was the first clear thought that I formulated. 


180 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


In the light of it all sorts of things seemed to become in¬ 
telligible—-mother’s life with father—Miss Martin’s gold 
ring—Alicia’s poor alternative—Mr. Grimble’s confident 
advances—Marjorie and Ellis—Yes, even Jake. When 
I “made a fuss over a cocktail,” he went out to demon¬ 
strate what a drunk man looked like! 

The one who controlled the money was in some way 
made superior. Nothing women gave in return—home— 
care—children—could balance that fact. 

When I had worked as a billing clerk for twenty dollars 
a week, I had given more than I received. Yet it was I 
who said a deferential “thank you” each week when they 
gave me my salary! Mother earned her board and keep 
a hundred time over, yet it was father who was the master, 
and the benefactor. I had worked for the Unlimited 
until I was too tired to sleep at night, but Mr. Grimble 
had demanded rights over my body for having given me 
a chance to wear it out in making money for him. Mar¬ 
jorie had raised her husband from an obscure outsider 
to a place in the circle where he had always wanted to 
move . . . yet Ellis patronized her because of her pov¬ 
erty. 

It all could be boiled down to a question of economics. 

I thought of Emmy’s primitive philosophy. The first 
time Marjorie had called, my cook had been highly elated. 

“That Missis Tremain? She’s class, every bit of a 
lady. I don’t know how she stands that husband of hers 
though—he’s nothing but an old half-breed! But, he’s 
got the cash,” she had ended cheerfully, as if that made' 
up for any minor insufficiencies. 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


181 


Emmy was familiar with the histories of most of our 
neighbors and one of my most difficult tasks was bringing 
home the fact that I would not discuss my friends and 
acquaintances with her. 

However, she and Jemmett held long arguments about 
this one and that one, and I overheard juicy snatches 
of gossip from time to time. Emmy’s most unflattering 
epithet was “half-breed”; the highest compliment she 
could bestow was to credit a person with “class”; the 
factor which compensated for everything was “cash.” 

Now I saw that Emmy’s philosophy, phrased in subtler 
terms, was that of most of the people I had known. It was 
a disillusioning discovery, but it explained much. 

It was because I had no “cash” that I lay with dry, 
burning eyes on this bed, facing the hopeless problem of 
what to do. 

One thing was certain. I could not remain here, to 
receive such charity as it might please my lord to be¬ 
stow—to swallow his insults with the bread and meat he 
gave me. 

Whatever might happen to me could happen, but I 
would leave. 

The determination gave me courage. I rose and pulling 
out a suitcase from the closet, packed it with clothes I 
had bought before my marriage and such things of what 
DuVal had bought as were absolutely necessary. I laid 
out traveling clothes on a chair, and with this done, 
slipped off my evening dress, the silver slippers, the silken 
underthings (each one of them a lien!), put on my gown 
and went to bed. 


182 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


My hot anger had burned itself away, leaving a cold, 
lead-like feeling about my heart. I was very tired too. 
Sleep came quickly. 

X 

Someone was in my room, groping towards the bed. 
I realized bitterly that I had not even the right to privacy 
when I slept. There was no key to my door. 

The next instant DuVal was beside me, holding me close 
to his body that shook with terrible sobbing. 

“Gretchen—sweetheart—beloved, forgive me,” he cried. 
“If you knew how I’ve suffered tonight! If you could even 
guess the hell I’ve been through, you’d understand how 
I could talk as I did! You know I didn’t mean it—you 
know it’s only because I love you so that you can make me 
miserable enough to forget I’m a gentleman—!” 

“Love of my body, yes. But what of my soul!” 

The cry of that dead woman came to me now poign¬ 
antly. They might have been my own words. Perhaps 
DuVal resembled his father in more than name. 

What use to prattle of forgiveness when a death blow 
has been dealt ? My love for him, such as it had been, was 
dead. No pleading for pardon could revive it—I doubted 
if anything could revive it—but, if he wanted forgive¬ 
ness. . . . 

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. 

“Oh, you are wonderful, dear—I don’t deserve you— 
I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


183 


“I forgive you, but I won’t live with you any longer,” 
I told him. 

“You won’t—Oh, Gretchen, don’t be silly! Married 
people don’t separate over their first quarrel!” 

“It isn’t the quarrel—it’s what you said. You will 
always remind me of—that. I told you nothing good 
could come of a friendship begun as ours began. . . . 
You, who came to me with your talk of loneliness, and my 
‘shining honesty’! You, with your holier-than-thou atti¬ 
tude! Who are you to judge me? But I shall never give 
you the opportunity to humiliate me again!” 

Anger and self-pity overpowered me. I spoke with bit¬ 
ing contempt. 

“Don’t be unfair, Gretchen,” DuVal begged. “Remem¬ 
ber how I was tried—I had come back because I felt that 
another day without you would be agony, and I found 
you gone. . . . Look how I love you, Gretchen! Feel 
my head! It’s burning with fever. I was not myself when 
I spoke to you as I did. See how I’m trembling! I’m 
sick, Gretchen—sick because I’ve hurt you—because some¬ 
thing has come between us. You wouldn’t leave me—you 
couldn’t leave me!” 

“I couldn’t stay. I’d feel like—like a kept woman!” 

“How can you say that! I’ve tried to make you happy. 
God knows, I’ve tried. I’ll never do anything again to 
make you unhappy—I’ll give you a separate hank ac¬ 
count. ... You shall be absolutely your own mistress. 
. . . Look how I grovel before you! . . . I kiss your feet. 
... I wash them with my tears unashamed. . . . I . . . 
Oh, what’s the use! If you don’t love me, you don’t!” 


184 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


He broke down and cried like a child. 

In spite of my resentment, I felt a great pity move 
within me. 

“Don’t, please don’t, DuVal,” I begged. 

I tried to raise his head—to comfort him, but the rack¬ 
ing sobs continued. 

“It’s no use, Gretchen. I can’t make any woman 
happy. There’s a blight in me somewhere that causes 
me to hurt what I love most. Oh, my darling, if you go, 
I’m lost! You’re my last chance to save myself. . . .” 

“To save yourself from what, dear,” I asked for he 
had spoken with such despair in his voice that for a mo¬ 
ment I was frightened. 

“From myself,” he answered, nor could I get any other 
explanation. “You will stay, won’t you Gretchen—I need 
you so!” 

“Yes, I’ll stay,” I said slowly after a few minutes 
thought. 

If he needed me, it was no more than I could do to stay. 
Twice he had helped me when I needed help. Now I 
should try to even the account. It would not be easy. 
The memory of this night would die hard, I feared, but 
I would try to forget—which, after all, is more than 
forgiving. 

He went to sleep contentedly with his head cradled on 
my arm, but I lay awake until the sky was all rosy with 
sunrise. Long, gilded fingers crept through the curtains 
and touched my husband’s face. A little pucker appeared 
between his eyes. He looked pale, and tired, but almost 
beautiful in sleep. 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


185 


I drew my arm from under his head and stretched my¬ 
self, loving the strong pull of muscles in my young body. 

DuVal still slept, one arm flung out, his dark head 
burrowed in the pillow. 

I remember wondering that we two should be lying 
there with our bodies touching, and yet be separated as 
the poles. What a little he knew of me! And how 
little I knew this man whom I had promised to honor 
and obey until death! 

I remember that a line from Genesis ran through my 
consciousness like a purple thread: “Male and female 
created He them.” 

“And never the twain shall meet,” I added, flippantly 
ironic. 

XI 

After that dreadful night, DuVal was more courteous 
and considerate than ever. Neither of us ever referred 
to it in any way. I was trying hard to forget, and he, 
I knew, was not proud of the part he had played. But, 
for all that, things were different. 

Having once seen what jealousy could do to him, I was 
now always on guard lest something I said ax 'did might 
rouse that insane passion again. And, I suppose, that 
once having suspected me, he could not rid himself of the 
shadow of doubt. 

When we sat together in the evenings, I would some¬ 
times look up from my book to find his eyes fixed on me 
with a gnawing, hopeless expression in their depths, the 
meaning of which I could not fathom. He was more quiet, 


186 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


too, more melancholy. Even his hobbies seemed to have 
lost some of their attraction for him. 

He had carried out his promise about a separate bank 
account. I now signed checks at will, but otherwise, I 
was less my own mistress than before. Not that he in¬ 
quired as to my movements, but because of an uneasy 
feeling that he suffered acutely when he did not know 
where I had been and with whom. 

I stayed at home more closely than before. I would 
have become a veritable recluse, if it had not been for 
Marjorie. She had given up her trip to East Hampton 
for some reason, and came to see me almost every day. 
We fell into the habit of taking long walks together. We 
would go for miles in silence, or else speaking of trivial 
matters. She had not mentioned Collins to me since that 
night after the theatre, and I did not like to introduce 
the subject. She did not seem unhappy. Except for a 
greater gentleness there was no apparent change in her. 
We hardly needed to talk, so in sympathy we were. I 
often had a sense of our being twin cocoons, blinded by 
our swaddlings, but mysteriously undergoing a metamor¬ 
phosis of which we were unconscious. 

DuVal did not like Marjorie. 

“She’s playing the devil with Collins,” he had once 
said to me. 

I knew that he disapproved of my intimacy with her, 
but this I could not give up. Besides, I regarded it as 
highly improbable that he would consider it of sufficient 
importance to become jealous, even though he might be¬ 
lieve her to be a “bad influence.” 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


187 


One Wednesday afternoon we went unusually far. It 
was nearly dinner time when I reached home. Duval was 
pacing up and down the verandah waiting for me. 

“You won’t have time to dress,” he said smilingly when 
I ran up the steps, out of breath. “But, then, you look 
very charming as you are!” 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I apologized contritely, knowing how 
DuVal cherished the little amenities of civilization. “We 
didn’t realize how far we were going! Don’t you suppose, 
if I hurried . . .” 

At that moment Jemmett announced dinner. 

“There was a gentl’mun called you this afternoon, Mrs. 
Archer,” he added. “I tol’ him you was out, and he said 
he’d phone again.” 

“A gentleman,” I exclaimed in surprise, with not the 
faintest idea of whom it might have been. 

I caught the searching glance that DuVal flashed at 
me. During dinner he sat in a tight-lipped silence that I 
tried in vain to break through. 

I went to my room early, chilled by his formal polite¬ 
ness, not a little offended by the suspicion I knew he was 
harboring. 

About nine o’clock the phone rang and I answered aj 
the extension upstairs. 

It was Mint Collins who reminded me of my promise 
to see him, and asked if he might come the following 
afternoon. I gave him permission. We chatted of im¬ 
personal things for a moment and then said goodbye. 

As I started to hang up the receiver, I heard the faint, 


188 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


unmistakable sound of the receiver in the hall below being 
replaced cautiously on its hook. 

I had a sudden furious impulse to dash downstairs and 
accuse my husband of eavesdropping. The servants had 
gone to their rooms and he was alone on the first floor. 
But, what good would it do ? 

If he had “listened in,” and misconstrued the conversa¬ 
tion, he would suffer more than I. In any case, I could 
make no explanation. Aside from the question of my 
stiff-necked pride, there was Marjorie’s secret to guard. 
Then, too, there was just a chance that I had been mis¬ 
taken. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, 
since in any case, I could do nothing. 

XII 

“What it all comes to,” Mint was saying, “is this: 
I love Marjorie, she loves me, and if it weren’t for that 
damned religion of hers—I beg your pardon, Gretchen, 
but it’s driving me crazy!” 

He bowed his head in his hands and sat there, the 
picture of despondency. 

What could I say? What could be done? That was 
just what it came to—deadlock. 

Mint was not the sort to nourish a hopeless passion, 
one glance at him convinced me of that. He demanded 
action of some kind. Any situation would have been 
easier for him to cope with than this into which he had 
stumbled. He was like a bewildered little boy. He simply 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


189 


couldn’t understand why he should be balked by anything 
so intangible as a belief. 

“If she loved her husband, or even if she turned me 
out because she wanted to be absolutely above-board with 
him, I could give her up. But she doesn’t care about him. 
How could she! Anybody but Marjorie would have left 
him long ago. He’s acted like a skunk towards her ever 
since they were married. . . . No, it’s just because she’s 
got some darned idea that divorce is a sin. ... I’d sin 
for her, Gretchen. . . . Why won’t she do the same for 
me ? She would, if she really loved me—and yet, she does 
love me. I’d stake my soul on that.” 

“She does, Mint—I know she does. That’s what makes 
it so hopeless.” 

“Couldn’t you talk to her, Gretchen—persuade her— 
do something?” 

I looked at him sadly. 

“There’s nothing I can do—there’s nothing you can do. 
Marjorie feels she’s right, and heaven itself couldn’t shake 
her. . . . Can’t you be content with knowing she loves 
you? Believe me, Mint, that means a great deal. What 
does possession matter when there’s love?” 

Even as I spoke I realized the futility of my plea. Ask 
this red-blooded, vital creature to be satisfied with an 
emotion! One might as well ask a tiger to live on dew¬ 
berries. 

He twitched impatiently. 

“I can’t, Gretchen. I’m a man, not a wax figure. I’ve 
never wanted anything like I want Marjorie. If I can’t 


190 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


have her, well! I can’t stand by and watch her living 
with a man she despises. That’s sure!” 

He rose and smiled determinedly. 

“You’ve been a brick to listen to me, and let me tell 
you something. . . You’d better get down on your knees 
and thank God you’re not up against what I am!” 

Always the same! Each one of us in a separate torture 
room. Each one of us thinking his own little purgatory 
is the only one on earth! 

Late afternoon sun was streaming into the library, 
picking out rich gleams of red and blue and yellow in the 
rugs, making a shining glory of the swords and daggers 
on the wall. In its light, Mint’s hair was burning gold. 
I thought of another blond man whose hair had looked like 
spun metal. Because of Jake, my voice was very tender as 
I spoke to him. 

“Poor Mint! We’re all up against something—but 
yours is very hard, I know.” 

“It is,” he said briefly, the suggestion of strain about 
his mouth intensifying. “But you’ve been very sweet 
to me—and to her. I never can thank you enough!” 

He bent over my hand and kissed it. 

As he did so, I caught sight of “Mon-soor” standing 
open-mouthed in the door behind him. 

“You’re wanted at the ’phone, Mrs. Archer,” he an¬ 
nounced with bulging eyes. 

XIII 

It was DuVal saying he would not be home for dinner. 

This had not happened since we were married, and I 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


191 


wondered what important deal could have come up to keep 
him at the office. 

It was ten o’clock before he came. I had gone to my 
room with a book and was lying in bed, half-reading, half- 
dreaming when he walked in. 

“Well, what have you been doing to amuse yourself?” he 
asked leaning down to kiss me. 

“Oh, nothing much,” I answered. 

“Had a good time today ?” 

“Not too exciting.” 

“No walk, nor callers, nor anything,” he persisted, still 
with his air of banter. 

“Mint Collins came in for a while this afternoon—other¬ 
wise I’ve spent the day very much alone.” 

DuVal started. 

“Collins,” he exclaimed somewhat sharply, “why wasn’t 
he at work?” 

“I really don’t know,” I smiled. “It wouldn’t have 
been very hospitable to ask, would it?” 

“No, I suppose not,” he agreed absently. “Did he 
stay to dinner ?” 

“I didn’t ask him when you ’phoned you would not be 
here.” 

“You didn’t? No, of course, you wouldn’t—of course, 
you wouldn’t.” 

We were silent for a time. I was trying to imagine the 
thoughts that were running through that dark head. 
DuVal sat on the edge of my bed, his slender, exquisitely 
kept hands clasped about his crossed knees. He was 


192 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


pondering something, I could see. Suddenly he smiled, 
as if at some delightful secret. 

“I haven’t brought you a present for ever so long, 
have I?” he asked affectionately. “I’ve something for 
you tonight. . . I hope you’ll like it.” 

Without waiting for an answer, he hurried from the 
room. 

“Shut your eyes,” he demanded, with a great show of 
mystery when he returned, carrying something which he 
kept carefully behind him. 

I did so, curious to know what new treasure he had 
found for me. 

I heard him carefully place something on my bedside 
stand. Then he knelt and took both my hands in his. 

“Don’t open your eyes, yet,” he begged. “I’ve brought 
you the most beautiful thing that I have ever seen, Gret- 
chen. I want you to promise me that you will always 
keep it where you can see it to remind you of me.” 

His voice was soft, almost crooning. 

“To remind you of how much I love you—how terribly 
much I love you. . . . Will you promise?” 

“Of course,” I answered a little impatiently^ Though 
I had long ago ceased to be surprised at any of my hus¬ 
band’s moods, I thought he was attaching a little too 
much importance to the gift he had brought me. 

He kissed me slowly on the lips. 

“Then, open your eyes, fairest of women, and behold!” 

There in a shrine of ebony, beautifully fashioned, stood 
the ivory Christ. 

I looked at it with the same horrified shrinking I had 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


193 


felt at my first sight of it. Now I had promised to keep 
it always where I could see it! What was the motive back 
of this subtle torture that DuVal had inflicted on me? 
He knew how I loved beauty and joy—how the sight of 
pain repelled me, caused me to actually suffer. He must 
remember my first reaction to this treasure of his! Of 
course, he remembered! That was why he had done this—- 
to hurt me. 

“Aren’t you pleased?” he asked with a pretense at 
anxiety. 

I looked at him without replying. Under my gaze,, his 
face darkened and became stern—almost fanatical. He 
pointed to the Christ. 

“He, too, loved greatly—and was crucified!” 

Without another word, he abruptly left the room. 

I placed his gift gingerly on my desk in a corner of the 
room. 

It was significant that afterwards I always wrote in the 
library. 

XIV 

I seldom read the papers. The daily dishing up of 
crime, scandal, political news, automobile accidents and 
the weather held no attraction for me. But one morning 
when DuVal and I sat at breakfast together, I picked 
up a section of the paper from the floor where he had 
dropped it, and opened to the theatrical news. 

The first thing that caught my eye was a quarter-page 
advertisement of “The Rose of Arcady, a Stupendous 
Drama in Three Reels, featuring Geraldine Grey” (the 


194 WINDOWS FACING WEST 

name Mr. Grimble had urged on me for film use). Head¬ 
ing the advertisement was a picture of myself in one of 
the simple gingham dresses that the Rose had affected 
before her sudden transformation into an heiress whose 
clothes had cost me nearly half my salary. 

There was a review, too, that said a great many nice 
things about me. One sentence stuck in my mind: 

This voung actress, so astonishingly like Miss Montrose, 
displays in her work during the early part of the picture, that 
curious, glowing quality, impossible to describe, which seems 
to be the hallmark of genius in any field of art. During the 
final reel, her likeness to the older actress becomes (regret¬ 
tably) more marked. Here she has imitated those unfortunate 
mannerisms of the International star, and loses her admirable 
restraint in flares of obviousness and sentimentality for which 
Miss Montrose has been criticised so often. 

I could hardly believe my senses. So the canny Un¬ 
limited had not been the loser after all. But how had 
they managed the final scenes with the star gone? In 
spite of my aversion from pictures, dating since the dance 
of the devils, I was consumed with curiosity to see how 
that film ended. 

“DuVal,” I said suddenly, “I’m going into town with 
you this morning.” 

He put down his paper. 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“I’m going into town with you this morning—can you 
wait for me to get dressed?” 

“Why, of course,” he replied cordially. “I’ll take a 
day off and we can run around together.” 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


195 


“That’s awfully sweet of you, but I’d rather--that is, 
I’ve lots of things to do, and I think probably . . 

“Just as you like,” he said, coldly polite. 

Can’t we meet somewhere for lunch? You won’t want 
to run around to the shops with me—it would be fright¬ 
fully boring,” I added in an effort at conciliation. 

Half an hour later, we were speeding into New York 
in the little car that my husband used in going to and from 
his office. 

We were both very quiet. I was excited and nervous as 
a bride. My head was too full of speculations about “The 
Rose of Arcady” to worry very much on account of 
DuVal. No one of our friends knew of my short career 
as a motion picture actress. Even DuVal did not know 
that I had been starred by the Unlimited. There was 
slight chance of his discovering it, as he abominated mov¬ 
ing pictures. I wanted to see this play alone—to face 
whatever revelation it might bring without any prying 
eyes watching to discover how I felt. DuVal was hurt by 
my refusal of his offer to accompany me, I felt sure. But 
that would have to be as it was. If he thought I was 
engaged on some underhand errand, he would have to 
make the most of his suspicion. I could not explain 
without giving myself away, and this I felt would be 
intolerable. 

DuVal dropped me at Forty-second Street. I took a 
taxi and went immediately to the theatre where “The 
Rose of Arcady” was being shown. At this time, the 
balcony was practically empty, as I had hoped would be 


196 WINDOWS FACING WEST 

the case. I sat in the first row and waited with tremulous 
eagerness for the sight of my face on the screen. 

The orchestra played softly. Four women in Russian 
costume appeared on the stage in a barbaric folk-dance. 
The news film seemed interminable. But at last it all 
came to an end. There was a moment’s pause in which 
I seemed almost to hear the pounding of my heart. Then, 
with tantalizing slowness, four words flashed on the screen: 

THE ROSE OF ARCADY 

During the forty-five minutes that followed, I under¬ 
stood for the first time why girls and women were willing 
to pay whatever might be asked in order to get an oppor¬ 
tunity of acting before the camera. 

In all my life, I think I have never known a fascination 
equal to that of watching myself. To study every line, 
every feature, every gesture—to commend and to criti¬ 
cise myself with the detachment of another person, gave 
me a miraculous sense of power—it is the only word. It 
may be that I am more egotistic than others. But that 
does not seem to account entirely for the tremendous 
elation that possessed me in the theatre that August morn¬ 
ing. If I were a great writer with stores of knowledge 
and a command of words, I might explain what I felt 
so that it would be intelligible. I might go into involved 
analyses of why I felt so. As it is, I can only say that 
it was akin to a spiritual experience. Nor did the memory 
of how it had been won detract from its significance. 

Through scene after scene I sat there, rapt, in con¬ 
templation. Suddenly I sat erect, tense. There on the 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


197 


screen was a woman who looked the same as I—who 
walked and smiled as I did. But it was someone else. 
The vague idea I had received on reading the review that 
morning, crystallized into a certainty. It was Madeline 
Montrose. 

It was she who had taken up the thread of the story 
where I had dropped it—she, the Unlimited had bribed in 
order not to lose the vast sum that had been spent on 
this production. They had offered me eight thousand 
a year. ... I wondered how many thousand Montrose 
had demanded—and received, before she would agree to 
take the risk involved in breaking her contract with the 
International. 

All at once a jubilant thought occurred to me. This 
woman who had caused me so many weeks of worry—on 
account of whose jealousy I had all but starved—was in 
my power. A word to the International people and she 
was ruined, just as surely as if I had thrown acid into 
her lovely, treacherous face. 

It would not be my word against hers—I had proof. 

The Unlimited had advertised this picture as having 
taken a year to complete. It was nearly a year ago that 
I had walked out of Mr. Grimble’s office for the last time. 
There was my marriage—DuVal was not unknown. What 
a story it would make! All sorts of black thoughts flitted 
through my brain—thoughts that I am now ashamed to 
recall, so small and malicious they were. My only ex¬ 
cuse is that this woman had made me suffer greatly— 
had driven me into situations which, if I had not been so 
sorely harassed would never have developed. 


198 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


As I now look at things, I realize that she was only the 
indirect cause of my misfortunes. But ever since that 
day at the International offices when Jimmie had whis¬ 
pered the story of her “row” about me, I had blamed her 
for everything that happened to me. And it was very 
recently, indeed, that I overcame my resentment towards 
her. 

When I left the theatre, it still lacked half an hour of 
the time when I had promised to meet DuVal for lunch. 

On the spur of the moment, I hailed a taxi and gave 
the address of the International Studio. 

Jimmie, looking a little older, but as slick-haired and 
impudent as ever, was alone in the hall when I walked in. 

“All out to lunch,“ he announced curtly. 

“That’s what I hoped,” I replied. “I wanted to see 
you a moment. I’m Gretchen May, Jimmie.” 

“It’s kinda dark in here,” he apologized. “I thought 
you was that big-stiff, Montrose.” 

“Can you tell me, Jimmie,” I asked, coming to the 
point at once, “when Montrose took her vacation?” 

“Sure—three months, April to first of July.” 

“Thank you very much.” I took a bill from my purse 
and offered it to him. 

“Say,” he ejaculated scornfully. 

“Please,” I begged. “You helped me out once, and 
I’d like you to let me do this—it’s nothing.” 

He took the money and placed it absently in a pocket 
with an air of obliviousness that was delicious. 

“You and her still scrapping,” he grinned. 

“Scrapping? Oh, no—at least, not yet.” 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


199 


I reached the Waldorf fully ten minutes before DuVal. 

“Hello,” he cried coming in hurriedly, “did you buy 
yourself lots of pretty dresses?” 

“Dresses,” I echoed blankly, having like a poor liar for¬ 
gotten all about my excuse for going off alone. 

Under his meaning smile, recollection came. I could 
have cursed myself for having strengthened his doubts. 

“Oh, no,” I tried to smooth it over, “I couldn’t find 
anything that I liked.” 

XV 

The first two weeks of August wore away, and still 
I had taken no steps to expose Madeline Montrose’s 
breach of faith. 

I thought of it often—picturing a thousand dramatic 
scenes which always culminated in the cool statement from 
me that would bring the world thundering down about her 
ears. But something always held me back. I think, a con¬ 
viction that the time would come inevitably without any 
seeking on my part. 

Meantime, I had plenty of food for thought in the situ¬ 
ation that had developed at home. 

DuVal, adhering to the letter of his promise, never in 
so many words cast doubts on my honesty. But since 
that day in New York his manner towards me had been a 
covert sneer that was far more effective than words, 
because less tangible. 

When he made love to me—as he still did, in spite of 
our estrangement—it was with an air of contemptuous 
patronage, indescribably humiliating, as if he despised 


200 WINDOWS FACING WEST 

himself for needing me, despised me for the hold I had 
on his senses; though, God knows, I was quite unconscious 
of any efforts to attract him. 

He regarded me as a Circe who lured men into my 
power only to change them to swine. For the first time 
I began to think of my body as shameful. And that is 
not good for anyone. 

His references to his first wife became frequent m 
comparison with me, she was presented as a paragon of 
all the virtues. DuVal had apparently forgotten his re¬ 
marks about her on the night we dined at Sherry’s, but 
I had not. 

I began to wonder about the first Mrs. Archer. Always 
before I had seen her in the light of DuVal’s criticism 
and self-pity. Now I realized that she had probably been 
harried as I was being harried. I decided that she might 
not be so much to blame, after all. I conceived the 
strangest longing to know this woman we two, I felt, 
would be closer than anyone I had yet known, even Mar¬ 
jorie, because of our common experience. She was the 
only person on earth who could enter understandingly 
into my perplexities. 

I had not seen Marjorie for some time when she ’phoned 
one morning and invited DuVal and me to a party. 

«It’ s informal—just you and the Allens and the Cum- 
berlands and the Jacksons—a few unattached of both 
sexes, and Mint.” 

Her voice softened on the last word. 

“Come early, Gretchen,” she added, “I’ve something 
important to tell you. . . . Tonight, then, dear!” 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


201 


At first DuVal steadfastly refused to go. 

“It’s too hot to be pleasant—besides it will be an infer¬ 
nal bore,” he predicted ungraciously. 

“But you’ve no excuse,” I pointed out. “Marjorie’ll 
be hurt. And it will look queer, if you don’t go. . . . 
Everyone knows what good friends Marjorie and I are.” 

“Oh, you can make up some excuse for me.” 

“Please, DuVal! Just this once,” I begged. 

He finally yielded, but insisted that he would not stir 
from the house before nine-thirty—That, if I must go 
early, Jemmett could drive me over and then bring the 
car back for him. 

So when at eight o’clock I ran up the broad stone steps 
at the Tremains’ and rang the bell, I was alone. 

Marjorie herself answered. 

“I was expecting you,” she cried excitedly. “Where’s 
DuVal?” 

“He’s coming later,” I explained. 

Ellis heaved himself out of an easy chair and came over 
to speak to me with the fatherly air he affected. 

“Now you run on and smoke,” Marjorie commanded. 
“I’ve lots of things to tell Gretchen and I’m going to take 
her up to my room for a little talk—it’s been ages since 
we saw each other.” 

m , “Go along, go along,” Ellis gave us his permission. “I 
know girls will be girls !” 

He chortled deeply at his wit as Marjorie took my arm 
and piloted me to her bedroom. 

She closed the door behind us and sank in to a chair, 
motioning me to do likewise. The sparkle of excitement 


202 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


had faded from her face leaving it tired and a little 
drawn. Her eyes were lusterless. 

“It’s the end, Gretchen,” she said. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Of everything,” she answered with a weary gesture. 
“Mint’s going away. . . . His company has a branch 
on the coast and he’s asked to be transferred out there. 
I begged him to. . . Things can’t go on as they’ve been. 
It’s too hard for both of us. . . Mint always talks about 
being a man—well, I’m a woman, Gretchen, and it isn’t 
easier for a woman.” She paused a, moment and then con¬ 
tinued in a lower tone. “One day last week we motored 
up to Connecticut. We stopped for lunch at a little 
inn ... I was weak, sinfully weak ... I shouldn’t 
have, but, oh, Gretchen, you can understand if you were 
ever in love!” 

“I know, dear,” I said consolingly. 

“I’d been trying to send him away for months,” Mar¬ 
jorie went on. “But it was only after—after that, I 
could do it. Isn’t that queer, Gretchen? One would 
think that I could not let him go after we’d loved—It 
was the other way with me. I know now that that’s why 
I couldn’t bear for him to go before—! This is really 
a farewell party for him. Ellis suggested it. Ellis is 
very fond of Mint.” 

“When is he leaving?” 

“Sunday night, I think,” Marjorie answered. 

“What will you do?” I asked pityingly. 

She hesitated a moment and then giving me a glance, 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 208 

half-shy, half-defiant, replied with a reawakening of 
animation. 

“I’ll tell you, Gretchen—you’ll never believe it! I’m 
going to adopt a baby!” 

“A baby,” I echoed incredulously. 

“Yes. Ellis wouldn’t hear of it before. He was afraid 
it would take me away from him!” She laughed scorn¬ 
fully. “When we came back from Connecticut that day, 
and I told Mint it had to be the end. ... I asked Ellis 
again, and he agreed. If he hadn’t I rather think I 
should go west with Mint.” 

“I hope you’ll be happy, Marjorie,” I told her, feeling 
that the words were woefully inadequate. 

“I think I shall be,” she said slowly. “It isn’t easy— 
you know it isn’t—but, well, I want a child more than 
anything in the world. And I know that if I went with 
Mint I’d never be happy. I suppose I’m foolish and old- 
fashioned, but I don’t believe anyone can win happiness 
by doing wrong!” 

She looked at me. Her magnificent self-control shat¬ 
tered and disappeared. Suddenly she flung herself at my 
feet and buried her face in my lap. 

“Oh, Gretchen, Gretchen,” she sobbed. “I know I’m 
doing right, but tell me you think so, too. I’ve no one 
to advise me that really cares.” 

“Marjorie—you’re doing right, if you’re doing what 
you must. Don’t you* know that, dear?” 

“I—I think so.” 

I looked at the slender body huddled on the floor, at 


204 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


the proud, dark head, now humbled, at the white, quivering 
shoulders. . . 

“You’re splendid, Marjorie,” I said, using Mint’s words 
of three months ago. 

“I’m not,” she protested. “I’m a miserable, whining 
wreck, and I wonder how you can put up with me!” 

She raised her head and smiled at me affectionately. 

“It’s you who are splendid. . . Why don’t you have 
twins, Gretchen,” she asked whimsically, “and give one of 
them to me? I’d love to have a baby of yours.” 

“I haven’t the right! It’s a terrible responsibility to 
have children, don’t you think? It’s only very conceited 
people who bring them into the world without any qualms. 
I’m not good enough—or conceited enough.” 

“Silly,” she scoffed. “You owe it to the world to per¬ 
petuate that marvelous hair, if nothing else!” 

“I have no conviction of owing the world anything,” 
I retorted soberly. 

“Have it your own way,” Marjorie laughed. “Are 
my eyes red?” 

“Not a bit.” 

“Then let’s hurry down—I suspect my guests are 
arriving.” 

The Jacksons and Mint Collins were the only ones 
who had come. Mr. Jackson, solidly prosperous and 
unimaginative, was solemnly talking business with Ellis. 
Aileen Jackson, a little bird-like woman with roving eyes, 
was flirting outrageously in a corner with Mint who 
looked very bored and dejected. 

He brightened wonderfully when we came in. I thought 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


205 


that anyone less confident than Ellis must have guessed 
the true state of affairs from the look he bent on 
Marjorie as they shook hands. 

Aileen noticed. I saw her bright little eyes gleam ma¬ 
liciously as she turned to our hostess. 

“Isn’t it a shame that he’s going away, Marjorie? I 
don’t know how we’ll get along without him, do you?” 

The thrust glanced off Marjorie’s armor of smiling 
indifference. 

“It will be very hard,” she admitted lightly, “but I 
suppose we shall have to make the best of it, since Mint’s 
mind is quite made up.” 

“Oh, you’ll be consoled, all right,” he said so gloomily 
that I could have laughed. 

Women can say so many things in a language that 
men do not understand. It is like grown people’s spell¬ 
ing what they do not want children to hear. 

No one of the men in the big room was aware that 
this was anything but an exchange of pleasantries. Yet, 
Marjorie and her guest had crossed swords, and Aileen 
was the vanquished. 

Soon others came: Mr. and Mrs. Cumberland who 
always reminded me of Jack Spratt and his fat-loving 
wife, the Allens, he dark and saturnine, she, looking like 
an advertisement of Holeproof Hosiery in her well- 
groomed blondness. With the Allens came Stuart Longs- 
worth, a fast withering bud of five seasons ago, who dis¬ 
played eighteen inches more of scrawny back than was 
good for her chances. 


206 WINDOWS FACING WEST 

“Where’s Lilia ?” Stuart demanded in a high, domineer¬ 
ing voice. 

“She’s coming with Henry White,” Marjorie said. 
“They haven’t shown up yet.” 

“Who’s Lilia,” I asked Aileen Jackson. 

She shook her finger playfully at me. 

“Lilia, my dear, is an old flame of your fascinating 
husband—you’d better keep an eye on her. She’s visiting 
the Cumberlands. Funny you haven’t met her—but, then, 
you and DuVal never go anywhere. . . . Isn’t he coming 
tonight ?” 

“Oh, yes, later,” I replied. 

Just then he walked in accompanied by Henry White 
and a long-limbed woman in the late twenties. She was 
• the typical “prom girl” grown old in service. Dashing, 
careless, superficially good-natured, there was something 
familiar about her, but it was much later in the evening 
that I discovered she looked like my cousin, Lagi. As 
she entered, she took in the men present with a calculating 
glance. Her eye lightened with a gleam such, I thought, 
as a veteran war-horse might display at the smell of 
powder. 

“I just now understand why D. V. could leave me in 
the lurch so brutally last summer,” she remarked to me 
when we were introduced. “I don’t feel half so badly 
about it, now that I’ve seen you,” she added with a 
frank smile. 

DuVal was in high good spirits. He included me in a 
general smile of greeting, and then proceeded to devote 
himself to Lilia Bingham. 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


207 


Mint Collins edged over to me. 

I want to see you for a minute, Gretchen. Will you 
slip away to the music room when you get a chance? I’m 
about all in—and you were so sweet to me before. . . 

“Yes,” I assented as Ellis bore down upon us. 

Mint slipped away as soon as he decently could, and 
left me with Marjorie’s husband. 

“You look stunning, Gretchen,” he announced, survey¬ 
ing me from head to foot. “In fact, you’re about the 
best-looking little woman around here, if anyone should 
ask me!” 

“Oh—I don’t know,” I demurred. 

“You’re no judge of it—no judge at all,” he insisted. 
“What is it that Burns fellow said: ‘Oh, wad some 
power the Giftie gie us to see ourselves as others see us’— 
pretty neat line, don’t you think?” 

“Yes, very,” I replied absently. 

DuVal was openly making love to Miss Bingham under 
a shaded light at one end of the long room. Marjorie, 
very distinguished in the shining severity of her black 
sequin dress, wandered among her guests with nothing 
except an added tinge of pallor, and a darkening of her 
grey eyes to indicate the emotional storm raging within 
her. Mint, smoking endless cigarettes, was leaning over 
Stuart Longsworth, who had turned the expanse of her 
unfortunate back on Elizabeth Allen. 

Little gusts of conversation came to me where I stood 
talking with Ellis : 

“Two husbands—my dear, she’s had three, at least!” 

. . . “I sold out at 40—cleared a cool twenty thou- 


208 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


sand.” . . . “She’s marvelous in the last act. They say 
old Evans. “I get it from my man at fifty 

the case—imported stuff.” 

Two butlers served drinks. 

As the evening passed, talk became louder, more bois¬ 
terous. Ellis made frequent alleged funny remarks, usu¬ 
ally introduced by: “As the little boy said . . .” or some 
such phrase. 

“Have a cocktail, Gretchen?” 

“No, thank you,” I declined a little uncertainly. The 
two I had already taken were causing the floor to move 
somewhat unsteadily under my feet. 

“Well,” Ellis said gaily, taking a glass from the tray, 
“as the old woman said when she kissed the cow: Every¬ 
one according to his own liking.” 

As soon as I could get away, I went unobtrusively 
towards the door to the music room. 

In comparison with what I had left, it was like a quiet 
backwater after the roar of the surf. 

I leaned out of a window and drew long breaths of the 
warm, fragrant air into my lungs. In a few moments 
Mint joined me. 

“Has Marjorie told you,” he asked abruptly. 

“Yes—and I’m so sorry, Mint!” 

“It’s just about finished me,” he said dejectedly. “I 
don’t see how she can do it. I just don’t understand, 
Gretchen, how she can have no more feeling for me than 
she has!” 

“You mustn’t talk like that, Mint. She has a great 



WINDOWS FACING WEST 209 

deal of feeling for you, or she never could do what she’s 
doing.” 

Perhaps,” he shrugged with an attempt at cynicism. 
And then his defenses broke down. He wept, much as 
Marjorie had wept earlier in the evening. 

I rested my hand on his head. It was all I could think 
to do that would express my sympathy for him. 

Where s my wife,” we heard DuVal’s voice inquiring 
loudly. 

The next instant he stood in the doorway with Lilia 
Bingham, smiling nervously, beside him. 

“Who’s in thish dark’n s’cluded room with my wife, I 
want to know—Oh, it’s you,” he cried amiably as he 
recognized Mint. He crossed the room unsteadily, beam- 
ing on Mint who sat on a divan at my side without moving. 

“Thash perf’ly all right, old scout. Pardon me for 
interrupting. You’re a damn’ nice fellow, Collins. There’s 
nothing I wouldn’t do for you. You go right ahead!” 

Lilia Bingham laughed excitedly. “Oh, DuVal,” she 
protested in a semi-shocked tone. 

“You’re drunk, DuVal, I think you’d better apologize 
to Mrs. Archer and then go home and sober up,” Mint 
suggested coldly. 

“Who’s drunk? Me? Not much,” DuVal denied jovi¬ 
ally. “I jus’ like you, Mint. That’s all!” 

XVI 

I think it was Marjorie who made Ellis persuade DuVal 
to go home. I know that she was very angry, and half in 


210 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


tears when I told her good night and she gave my hus¬ 
band a look of such scorn as I would not have supposed 
her capable of feeling. 

It was not as embarrassing as one might think, because 
most of the others had drunk enough to be tolerant, at 
least. But at the time I thought I should die of shame. 
Lilia Bingham had heard everything. That was hardest 
to forgive. The look in her eyes had frightened me. 
It was the savage joy of the failure in beholding the suc¬ 
cessful rival’s humiliation. It frightened me because of 
its baseness. I had not quite realized before that human 
nature could touch such depths. 

DuVal went to bed at once. We had not addressed a 
word to each other since leaving the Tremains. 

The next day was Saturday. When I went down to 
breakfast, Jemmett told me that Mr. Archer had already 
gone, which was unusual, as on this day he seldom bothered 
to go to the office at all. Nor did he come home for 
lunch. At six o’clock he ’phoned Jemmett that he was 
dining in town, but had invited a crowd to come in for 
poker, as usual, in the evening. 

Soon after dinner, I went to bed with a book: Madame 
Bovary. It is significant that my taste for romances had 
run its course. I demanded something uncompromisingly 
true to life. It was help I wanted now, not sugar frosting. 

DuVal came in about nine. I heard him run upstairs, 
but he did not come into my room, and I did not call to 
him. He must be the one to make overtures, I decided. 

One by one the players arrived. From the noise, I 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 211 

judged that the crowd had got an early start with its 
drinking. 

DuVal called impatiently for Jemmett. There was a 
sound of ice being crushed in the pantry. I hoped 
drowsily that they would not break any of my crystal 
glasses. Then I went to sleep. 

I do not know how long it was before I was awakened 
from an uneasy dream by noises in the hall outside my 
door. The moon had gone down, my room was filled with 
that peculiarly thick, still blackness which comes after 
twelve o’clock. 

I raised my head and listened. 

It sounded like a heavy body being dragged over the 
floor. There was a sound of struggle, of shuffling feet. 

I switched on my light and jumped out of bed just as 
the door burst open and five men half-fell into my room 
tugging along a furious sixth—Mint Collins. 

They were all dishevelled, all somewhat the worse for 
drink, all, except Mint, appeared to be enjoying them¬ 
selves hugely. 

DuVal was in the lead. 

“There!” 

He pointed triumphantly to me, standing in my thin 
silk nightgown too thunderstruck to be quite conscious 
of what was happening. 

“Can you beat that, Allen?” 

“What does this mean?” I asked indignantly. 

“You needn’t get mad about it,” DuVal remarked pet¬ 
tishly. “I’m defending your reputation as a beauty, my 
dear. Allen’s made the statement that his wife’s best 


212 WINDOWS FACING WEST 

looking. I say mine. First we inspect mine— then his. 
Mint’s the judge.” He leered wickedly at me. “We 
decided Mint would be impartial judge!” 

“Get out of my room this instantj you drunken 
swine,” I commanded in a voice that trembled with fury. 

“Gretchen! I wouldn’t have had this happen for the 
world,” Mint exclaimed, trying in vain to free himself 
from the hold of the others. “By God, Archer, we’ve been 
friends a long time, but this is going a little too far: 
When you invite me here and then drag me in to witness 
you insulting your wife, I’m through, do you hear? 

. Let go my arm,” he finished, wrestling wildly with 
Allen and Dave Cumberland who were clinging to him 
on one side. 

My wrath and Mint’s outburst had somewhat sobered 
the crowd. Their resistance was only half-hearted. 

“Now,” Mint cried, waving his right arm around m a 
circle, “clear out of here—every last one of you, or I’ll 
fight you, one at the time or all together. . . Clear out, 
do you hear?” 

They went, sheepishly, crestfallen. Little Mr. Cum¬ 
berland lagged behind the others. 

“I hope you’ll excuse us, Mrs. Archer,” he said. “It 
was just by way of being a little joke. ... I don’t know 
what Mrs. Cumberland will say when she hears it,” he 
added nervously as an afterthought. 

DuVal stood at the foot of my bed. At Mint’s words 
he had turned very pale, but he had not spoken. 

“I suppose you’re satisfied with your work,” he now 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


213 


said coldly, “you’ve turned the best friend I ever had 
against me.” 

“Suppose you wait until you are sober to discuss what 
we each have done,” I suggested. 

“So you think I’m drunk!” He laughed bitterly. “I 
wish I were. Then I might not mind so much what I’ve 
found out tonight.” 

“Oh, no, I’m not drunk,” he continued as I made no 
reply. “At least, not too drunk to know that there’s 
something between you and Mint Collins.” 

“Between me and Mint Collins,” I cried, surprised out 
of my stony indifference. 

“Oh, you act the innocent well, but it doesn’t go, my 
dear! Yes, you and Mint Collins! Does it surprise you 
that your doddering old husband has eyes to see ? Do you 
think I don’t know that you met him in town last week 
when you were supposed to be shopping? You wonder 
how I found out, don’t you? Well, I called at his office 
and they said Mr. Collins had ’phoned that he would not 
be down that day!” 

So that was what he had been suspecting! And the day 
I was in town, must have been the day Mint and Marjorie 
went to Connecticut! 

“You needn’t stand there looking like an injured angel 
—I’ve simply been cleverer than you, so you might as 
well take your medicine,” DuVal burst out brutally. 
“When I brought him in here to-night, his actions gave 
me the final proof—you’ve schemed, and so have I! . . . 
I understand now your devotion to your dear friend, 
Marjorie. She was very convenient, wasn’t she, when 


214 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


you wanted to arrange meetings, and keep me in the dark! 
And to think that I suspected her of being the cause of 
Mint’s trouble! ... I apologize to Marjorie. I might 
have known she would be above that sort of thing. 
Marjorie is a lady!” 

“And now, you will kindly leave my room,” I said, 
interrupting for the first time the torrent of abuse he had 
been pouring on me. 

“Your room?” 

He seated himself on my bed with maddening 
deliberation. 

“I haven’t tired of you quite as quickly as Collins has, 
so I think I shall stay in my room a while longer.” 

“Oh—you—you,” I began, almost speechless with 
anger, unable to find a term sufficiently scathing to ex¬ 
press my contempt. 

As always, the sight of my impotent rage seemed to 
relieve his emotion. He laughed softly. 

“You can’t keep your lovers, and you can’t get rid of 
your husband—awkward, isn’t it?” 

“But I can leave,” I retorted, going swiftly towards 
the door. 

DuVal sprang ahead of me and caught my wrists. 

“Oh, no, you can’t, because I choose for you to remain!” 

Resistance was useless; his fingers held me like steel 
vises. His eyes mocked me with an insane light in their 
depths. I noticed with detached interest that the pupils 
were elongated, like a cat’s in the daytime. 

“Who would ever suspect that those clear eyes could 
hide so many plotting thoughts,” he jeered. “That such 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


215 


fair skin could cover a naughty, intriguing heart! But 
crudely done, my dear, very crudely. You were not 
tutored at Versailles!” 

“You—vile—monster,” I ground out between tight-shut 
teeth . . . “you—you dog! No, not that. For dogs at 
least are decent.” 

“But I, too, can be decent! See how lovingly I embrace 
you! How warm my kisses are!” 

“Let me go,” I gasped, “or-” 

“Or what!” 

A minute longer he held me, laughing in my face, then 
pushed me from him with such violence that I staggered 
and almost fell. 

“Bah! What a fuss to make over a hundred and ten 
pounds of bone and white flesh, with a few well-assorted 
features thrown in! Two men savoring hell for—you! 
Get to sleep. God knows, I won’t prevent you.” 

He flung himself contemptuously out of the room. 

My first impulse was to pray. I turned out the light 
and knelt at the open window, looking out into the black 
immensity of the night. My lips framed words—words of 
humble supplication. But they were not uttered. 

Some iron strain of pride brought me to my feet. 

“I’m damned if I do,” I cried. “I’ll not come whining 
to You. You are a man—you’d probably like for me to 
grovel before you, but I shan’t. I made my bed, and I’ll 
lie in it. I’ve tried to do right, and it’s brought me here. 
So now I’ll do what I must. I won’t come whining to 
you. I’m not afraid of you and your hell. . . . You 



216 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


can’t break me. I’m not a quitter, God,” I ended half¬ 
sobbing. 

My defiance gave me strength and courage. I dressed 
quietly; quietly, but with feverish haste, packed one small 
bag. Saw that I had quite a good deal of money in my 
purse, and just as the first pale streaks of dawn were 
showing in the sky, I took one last look about the room 
where I had lived, not unhappily, for nearly a year. As 
I opened the door, my eye fell on the Christ. A thought 
occurred to me. 

I came softly back into the room and drawing off my 
wedding ring I placed it on the statue’s thorn-crowned 
brow, where it made a bright, golden halo. 


BOOK FIVE 


I 

I do not remember the incidents of that morning very 
clearly. I remember walking to the nearest drug store 
and ordering a taxi. I remember the ride into New York 
as a nightmare of slowness (though in reality we made 
excellent time) with me urging the driver to hurry— 
hurry! 

My dominating thought was the necessity for haste. 
Why, I do not know. DuVal could hardly have followed 
and dragged me back by force. My mind was made up, 
and no pleas of his could move me now. I think I was 
fleeing from the possibility of another sight of him—from 
the emotional strain of a scene. 

“Where to, Mrs. Archer?” the driver asked as we 
entered Riverside Drive. 

“Where —,” I repeated blankly. 

“Where do you want to go ?” 

“Oh, anywhere—Grand Central Station,” I answered 
at random, indifferent to the man’s curious glances. 
s But his question brought home to me the fact that I 
had no plans. Nor did I care. Yet it was necessary for 
me to decide on a place to stay, if only temporarily. 

As I paid the fare and went into the station restaurant 
for a cup of coffee, a thought occurred to me, delightfully, 

217 


218 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


blessedly definite in the confusion of my mind. I would 
go to that hotel where I had spent my first night in New 
York—that hotel where one was so very safe. 

Again I wanted to he safe. To lull my soul hack to 
health in security. 

When I had drunk my coffee and nibbled at a slice of 
toast, I walked along the clean-washed streets to the 
Avenue and caught a ’bus. I should have liked to walk, 
hut my hag was too heavy. 

The kind-eyed woman who had befriended me four years 
ago was gone, but in spite of my disappointment at this, 
the unpretentious little hotel seemed almost like home. 

I went to my room and to bed, for I had had practically 
no sleep the night before. • 

Over and over my tired brain revolved the incidents 
leading up to my flight. 

One thought persisted because of its incongruity. 

In all his suspicions of innocent people, and harmless 
incidents, DuVal had never once asked me what had 
happened that day in the Unlimited’s offices while he was 
waiting for me. 

II 

For three days I hid away in my room at the hotel, 
luxuriating in its seclusion and in my new-found sense of 
peace. I imagined that I had at last grown calm, that 
my questioning and search had ended forever. 

“This is better,” I told myself, “than any reality— 
because now I do not feel. I am dead, yet alive. What 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


219 


could be more desirable? To find the meaning of life in 
hot baths, in food, in sunshine and long hours of sleep!” 

I was quite convinced for three days that I was beyond 
the reach of pain or desire or any sensation other than 
the purely bodily one of animal content. 

“Nothing that can happen will matter,” I thought. 
“They can’t get at me any longer. I am dead!” 

A smiling arrogance of spirit possessed me. Had I not 
defied God and man and all the forces of nature with 
impunity? I was I, Gretchen May. Weak—yet stronger 
than all these combined, because I did not care what 
became of me. Self-concern was gone, seeking was gone, 
ambition and rebellion had departed forever, I said. There 
was left only a great confidence, a ruthlessness, that I 
would be myself—that nothing could break me, nor divorce 
me again from my soul. 

At the bottom of my consciousness, I realized that I 
could not go on living at the hotel indefinitely. I had not 
enough money. I knew that I should have to do some¬ 
thing—worst of all, that I should have to decide what 
to do. But these concerns were not sufficiently definite to 
disturb my dream-like existence, for three days. 

On the morning of the fourth day, however, there came 
a change. I looked from my window and saw people 
hurrying to work. Automobiles zoomed by. There was 
an autumn crispness in the air. 

Suddenly I wanted to go out—to walk for hours along 
these hard, solid streets—to throw back my shoulders 
and drink in the sun drenched air until my head reeled— 
to grow tired—to be jostled by indifferent male and 


220 WINDOWS FACING WEST 

female creatures—to feel the nearness of humanity and, 
yes, to smell the good, human smells! 

Oddly enough, as I walked swiftly up the Avenue, I 
found myself repeating the Apostles’ Creed. 

“I believe in the Holy Ghost,” I murmured, passing a 
florist’s window bright with asters and reddening leaves; 
“the holy Catholic Church; the Communion of Saints; 
The Forgiveness of Sins; The Resurrection of the Body; 
And the Life Everlasting.” 

I repeated the words mechanically. It was as if some 
one else took control of me and uttered them. They did 
not seem to have significance. 

Mj mood was one of quiet exaltation. I observed and 
relished everything, but seemed still to be outside the 
world. 

I turned down Thirty-Ninth Street and walked over 
to Broadway. 

A dress in the window of a little shop caught my 
attention. I stopped to look at it, and then all thoughts 
of dresses were blotted out, for in one corner of the 
window was a signed photograph of Madeline Montrose. 

At the sight of her smiling face, hatred and resentment 
rushed over me anew. 

“Oh you—you wicked woman,” I cried softly. “It*s 
because of you that I’m where I am. But I know how to 
take the smile from your face, and I’ll do it, too l” 

I struck the plate glass a great blow with my fist. 
The sound brought me to my senses. I looked around to 
see if any one had observed me, but it was still very early, 
and the few people out were too intent on their business to 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


221 


waste time in watching a well-dressed woman beat on shop 
windows. 

I turned away quickly and retraced my steps, but the 
storm within me had not subsided. “The Resurrection 
of the Body,” that much at least of the creed I believed 
in. For I who had been dead was now alive. The old 
unquiet again filled my breast. I had arisen to hatred 
and vengeful thoughts. 

As I passed Tiffany’s on the way back to my hotel, 
a grey limousine was drawn up to the curb. The door 
opened and a woman stepped out, almost colliding with 
me. 

“I beg your pardon,” she apologized, and then beamed 
unexpectedly. “Why, it’s Miss Montrose! How do you 
do?” 

She extended a white-gloved hand. 

An indignant denial was on my lips, but I checked it in 
time. Why not be Madeline Montrose? She had played 
at being me for a while. It might be interesting. 

“I don’t believe you remember me,” the woman went on, 
looking at me keenly. “I’m Mrs. J. Wortham Harris, and 
I met you at one of Jack Binford’s teas last winter.” 

“Of course,” I said smiling. 

“I’ve been trying to get in touch with you ever since, 
but you famous people are so frightfully elusive! . . . 
You haven’t forgotten your promise to dine with us, I 
hope? We’ve been looking forward so eagerly to having 
you.” 

“Indeed, I haven’t,” I protested, “it would be delight¬ 

ful.” 


222 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


I had already classified this nervous, richly-dressed 
woman before me as an inveterate lion hunter. 

Again a keen, fluttery survey of me. I could almost 
see her thoughts scurrying back and forth. Should she, 
or should she not? Some important decision was evi¬ 
dently being made. 

“Why not come out to-night,” she suggested daringly. 
“I know it’s frightfully late to ask you, but, if by any 
chance, you haven’t an engagement, I should be so glad 
to have you come. ...” 

“As it happens,” I replied, “I ran into town for a few 
days without letting any one know. . . . Just for a 
chance to be alone—you know . . . !” 

“Indeed I do,” Mrs. Harris exclaimed hastily, “and 
it’s terrible that you should meet me and be bothered 
with invitations.” 

“Oh, but I’ve had almost enough of solitude,” I laughed. 
“I’d be very glad to come, Mrs. Harris.” 

“That is splendid,” she Cried, beaming delightedly 
again. “Shall I send for you, then, about six? We’re 
still at our place on Long Island.” 

“Thank you very much. I’m staying at a funny little 
hotel under an assumed name, so I must ask you not to 
give away the secret of my whereabouts. If the reporters 
and interviewers discover me, my chance for a rest will be 
gone forever,” I laughed, as I gave her my address. 

That charmed Mrs. Harris. 

It was simply a shame the public nagged me so, and 
wasn’t it romantic to live under an assumed name, and 
she’d send Willis for me at six o’clock, and was inexpres- 



WINDOWS FACING WEST 


223 


sibly grateful to me for being sweet enough to come on 
such short notice! 

She looked overjoyed at the good fortune that had 
befallen her, and was reluctant to let me go. I think she 
was afraid of losing me, and would have liked to pack me 
into the limousine then and there, but even she could 
not quite find courage to suggest such a course. 

However, I finally got away on the plea of an urgent 
engagement. A few blocks farther down the street and 
I remembered that I had no evening clothes with me. This 
was an unforeseen obstacle. For a while I saw nothing to 
do but run back and beg off from the dinner party. Then 
I remembered that, as DuVal’s wife, I had an account at 
one of the big department stores. Why should I not buy 
things there? Surely I was due that much compensation 
for what I had endured on his account! When I left 
home, I had made out a check to him for the remainder 
of the sum he had deposited to my credit. That was really 
mine, but I had relinquished it. Now, however, I would 
swallow my pride and charge to his account the clothes 
necessary to undertake this adventure. 

How it would end, I could not foretell. But I wanted 
to go. I wanted for a few hours to taste the fruits of 
Madeline Montrose’s success. And, at that time, to want 
anything was with me sufficient reason for doing it. 

Ill 

The Harris’ house was a great pile of stone, palatial 
in its proportions and appointments. 


224 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


At the front, extending down to the sea of which one 
caught enticing blue glimpses from the verandahs, were 
the formal gardens, very much like all formal gardens 
but on a scale of magnificence that was a revelation to me. 
Back of the house rose thickly wooded hills whose dark 
green provided a striking frame for the dazzling “Villa 
Alba,” as Mrs. Harris had somewhat unimaginatively 
named the place. 

The Harrises belonged to that group of mushroom 
millionaires who owe their wealth to oil. 

She was preoccupied with giving the impression of 
having always been accustomed to her present style of 
living, but Mr. Harris retained a naivete in the midst of 
his luxurious surroundings that was as charming to others 
as it was annoying to his wife. 

I liked him at once. He was a big man with touseled, 
sun-burned hair and a pair of boyish eyes, the bluest I 
ever saw. His skin was tanned to the color of an Indian’s, 
and he had not been rich long enough to have lost the 
effects of a sturdy outdoor life. 

When I arrived it was not yet quite dark. Mr. Harris 
insisted on showing the place to me. 

“You’ll tire Miss Montrose, Jim,” his wife objected. 
“Perhaps she doesn’t want to browse around.” 

“Oh, but I do—I’d love it.” 

“Miss Montrose’s not one of your hot house plants. 
I knew it the minute I clapped eyes on her,” Mr. Harris 
said triumphantly. 

Mrs. Harris declined to go. She must give a few orders 
to the servants, she explained. 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


225 


We wandered through the grounds for twenty or thirty 
minutes, Mr. Harris eagerly drinking in my enthusiastic 
praise, pointing pridefully now and then to a bed of 
flowers, a piece of statuary—or taking me to the exact 
spot where the best view was to be had. 

“You know,” he began diffidently as we started back to 
the house, “I was scared to death when Mary said you 
were coming. From what she told me, I was sure 
you’d be stuck up. I’m real glad we got acquainted. 
You don’t seem a bit like a movie actress, Miss 
Montrose. ...” 

We stopped for a minute on the verandah and looked 
out over the gardens, now suggestive of unreality in the 
rapidly gathering dusk. The great clumps of shrubbery 
were monstrous silhouettes, the trees might have been 
mythical giants. There was a sadness, a fatefulness about 
the scene that .reminded me of the enchanted gardens of 
my fairy tales. 

From the brightly lighted house came sounds of talk 
and laughter. 

“They’ve got here,” Mr. Harris groaned. “You 
mustn’t think I’m not glad to have company, Miss 
Montrose,” he added hastily, “but most of these people 
Mary likes are so eternally queer! The women seem more 
like men, and the men are reg’lar sissies, most of ’em— 
I’ve got a lot of things I never had before,” he indicated 
the house and the grounds in a sweeping gesture, “but 
sometimes I’d be willing to give it all up for the old way 
of living. . . .You can understand how I feel, Miss 
Montrose. It’s like you’d been playing a part in a picture 


226 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


for so long that you’d most forgotten what your real 
self was like. And you wanted to quit play-actin’ and 
get acquainted with yourself again. . . . !” 

“Then why,” I began. 

“Mary likes this,” he explained simply, “and I guess I 
can’t do anything better than make Mary happy One 
good thing about these fellers, though,” he ended on a 
more hopeful note, “they don’t turn down liquor ever, 
even if it is enough to make you blush to see the way 
they doctor good stuff with fizz and fruit juice.” 

Mrs. Harris came fluttering up excitedly when we 
went in. 

“I declare, I was getting worried about you! Has he 
walked you to death, Miss Montrose?” 

Without waiting for an answer, she began introducing 
me to the people present. There were three women, who 
left no impression at all because one’s attention never 
went beyond their clothes and jewelry, and four men— 
prosperous business types. 

“Mr. Haynes, Mr. Ayres, Mr. Ralph—but you know 
Harry Baldwin,” Mrs. Harris ended beamingly. 

So I knew Harry Baldwin! That was awkward'. I 
wondered how well I knew Harry Baldwin. 

I thought, but could not be certain, that there was a 
mocking, ironic gleam in his eyes as he bowed to me. 

“You told me your vacation was over,” he remarked 
when the business of formalities was finished. 

“So it was, two months ago,” I answered smilingly, 
certain of my ground for the time being. 

He looked puzzled. 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 227 

“And you haven’t started work yet on a new picture,” 
he persisted. 

I stole a glance at him from under my lashes. His face 
wfas pleasantly interested. It was impossible to tell 
whether or not he had seen through my pretense. 

“Do you mind if I don’t discuss it?” I parried. “You 
know how we artistes feel about our work, Mr. Baldwin!” 

“Mr. Baldwin,” he cried reproachfully. “I thought we 
agreed long ago to be plain Harry and Madeline to each 
other!” 

“Forgive me, Harry,” I amended with a sinking sensa¬ 
tion about my heart. Apparently I knew Mr. Baldwin 
very well indeed. Heaven knew, what complications would 
arise. I was never meant for an intriguer, I told myself 
furiously. I always gave myself away. But I’d see this 
through—brazen it out—in spite of Fate and this big, 
smiling man beside me. I studied him furtively. 

Everything about him proclaimed the practical man, 
from the round, well-shaped head to the strong, square 
hands. Here was no dreamer, nor fanaticist. Honest, 
well-balanced, healthy in mind as in body. . . . There 
was power in his face, intense self-confidence, nothing to 
indicate an introspective turn of mind. One would always 
know where he stood, I felt. There was no baffling 
feminine element to confuse one’s calculations about him. 
I rather thought he would not give me away. . . . 
However . . . 

A butler came in with cocktails. I noticed that my 
hand was trembling as I raised the glass to my lips. 
After a third, however, I felt my self-assurance returning 


228 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


and a hint of that beatific state I had experienced for 
three days—an epic disregard for consequences. 

I surveyed the room with cool, critical eyes. Mrs. 
Harris, her dress just a shade too elaborate, her jewels 
just a thought too splendid for good taste, fluttered 
in and out among her guests with a slight pucker of 
anxiety on her brow. She was one of those women who 
can never leave people to their own devices. She made 
her guests miserable with superfluous attentions. Mr. 
Harris had effaced himself after our entrance. I caught 
fleeting glimpses of him during the evening, solemnly 
emptying tall glasses of rye which he preferred to the 
“sissies” cocktails, but that was all. He resolutely left 
Mary to do the honors. 

Dinner was announced at seven-thirty. Harry Baldwin 
took me in, but to my great relief he contented himself 
with chatting of inconsequential things. Indeed, he was 
so discreet that I decided my fears had been groundless. 

I had quite regained my customary poise when we went 
back to the drawing room. 

Bridge was suggested, but there was a not very enthu¬ 
siastic response, for which I was grateful. I played a 
miserable game and had no desire to lose at cards the sum 
of money that remained to me. 

For a while conversation was general. Then one of 
the women, a Mrs. Ramseur whom every one, except Mr. 
Harris, addressed as Vivian, sat down at the grand piano 
and began playing and singing. 

Her voice was a rich contralto with a seductive, melan¬ 
choly undertone that reminded me of DuVal. 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


229 


The music and the wine I had drunk during dinner 
combined to produce in me a wistful, dreamy sadness. I 
saw that Mr. Harris wiped his eyes stealthily from time 
to time. All of us seemed more or less affected except 
Mrs. Harris. Her quick glances kept darting everywhere 
to assure herself that we were not bored. 

Mrs. Ramseur ended on a lighter note—The Gypsy 
Trail, I think. She had hardly left the piano before our 
hostess had rung for champagne. 

“A toast to Miss Montrose, 1 ” she suggested brightly 
when the bottles had been brought. The party was 
distinctly too quiet. She must liven up things a bit. 

I had not drunk champagne since that night on the 
lake-shore with Jake. Nor had I been able to so much as 
look at it without paling because of the associations it 
conjured up. 

Now I laughed, strangely, I fear, for Harry Baldwin 
shot a quick look at me. 

“Yes,” I cried, beside myself, “let us drink champagne 
which suits me as no other drink except perhaps benedic- 
tine, and that is a little—heavy! I will drink champagne 
in spite of my school-girl’s eyes to Madeline Montrose’s 
undying success!” 

“To Madeline Montrose’s undying success,” the others 
echoed gamely, concealing their astonishment at this 
unconventional procedure. 

The wine bit gently into my throat as I drained the thin 
glass. 

Harry Baldwin’s drink remained untouched. 

“Why aren’t you drinking,” I demanded petulantly. 


230 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


For answer he smiled at me, gravely, intimately as an 
old friend. 

“I’ll drink to my own toast,” he replied. 

The glasses were filled again. 

“To you,” said Harry Baldwin gently, and I knew then 
that he knew. 

The knowledge only seemed to make me more reckless. 
What did I care? I was in a seventh heaven of exhilara¬ 
tion. So were we all. Even Mrs. Harris soon forgot her 
customary role, and slipped into picturesque western 
colloquialisms. 

Jim Harris, sitting out of the circle, construed the 
toasts as good excuse for additional glasses of straight 
whiskey. I remember being very much worried as I saw 
him drinking steadily. 

“You mustn’t do that,” I called to him. 

For answer he waved his hand paternally with a twinkle 
in his blue eyes. 

“Don’t you worry your head about an old timer like 
me,” he admonished gaily. 

“I like you, Jim Harris,” I called back which caused 
the others to roar with laughter and embarrassed him so 
that he ducked his tousled head precipitately into his 
glass and drained it at a gulp. 

There were toasts drunk to every one present—to our 
friends—to the President of the United States—and I 
forget how many more. The long necked bottles dis¬ 
appeared one by one and were replaced from a seemingly 
inexhaustible source. 

A tendency to pair off became apparent. Vivian 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


281 


Ramseur and Ayres had already drifted away to another 
room. Miss Fielding was casting languishing glances at 
Mr. Haynes. 

Harry Baldwin slipped up to me. 

“Come out on the verandah,” he ur^ed, “and watch 
the moon with me!” 

He went up to Mrs. Harris and seemed to be making 
a request for she nodded assent after a questioning glance 
at me. 

I trailed out of the room magnificently, my green dress 
slashing silkily about my ankles, my head held very high. 
The wine only seemed to have made my brain acutely 
keen. That sense of impending revelation which I had 
felt once or twice before was strong within me. There was 
a ringing in my ears like the chime of a hundred silvery 
bells. I now know that it was the drink, but at the time 
it impressed me as a part of my mystical experience. 

The gardens were magically bathed with moonlight, the 
sea showed as a darkly glittering expanse belted by the 
white road. 

Harry Baldwin lit a cigarette matter of factly, un¬ 
impressed by the unearthly beauty at which we gazed. 
The glare of the match threw his face into strong relief. 
His masculinity delighted me. 

He tossed the match away, and puffed for a while in 
silence. 

“Who are you?” he asked at last in a low tone, without 
looking at me. 

“I’m the unhappiest woman in the world ” I answered 
slowly. 


232 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


“Perhaps,” he yielded, “but what is her name? Not 
Madeline Montrose, because I had dinner with her last 
night and she left this morning for an outlandish place 
where they’re taking some big scenes. Besides,” he went 
on warmly, triumphantly, “Madeline Montrose has a tiny 
black mole on her left shoulder just here,” he touched 
me with a strong blunt finger, “and your white shoulders 
are irreproachable. . . . There’s no such thing as an 
absolutely perfect double.” 

“Maybe I had the mole removed early this morning 
and stayed over a day longer to recuperate ...” 

“All right,” he said good-humoredly, “have it your own 
way. But since you won’t tell me who you are, shall I 
tell you?” 

He leaned very close to me, holding me with his eyes. 

“Your name is Geraldine Grey, and you were dropped 
by the Unlimited Film Company for some reason you do 
not know. Shall I tell you why?—The International, 
fearing for Miss Montrose’s popularity, arranged with 
your company to pay a sum of money, oh, quite a large 
sum, to have you quietly eliminated. I learned all that 
last night from your charming but unscrupulous proto¬ 
type!” 

So Mr. Grimble had not been worsted after all. 
Grudging admiration for his craftiness mingled with my 
distaste. I was tickled by the thought of his complacency 
when he pocketed the International’s check. Mr. Grimble 
was very clever—like Herman May, he would go far 
because he let no weak scruples restrain him. The whole 
sordid scheme stood revealed to me—the interview with 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


233 


Montrose, his offer to withdraw me before a contract was 
signed if she would come in and finish the picture—the 
pretended generosity of his agreement with the Inter¬ 
national-—the fat check for shoving off the bird who had 
already flown! Ah, that was good business ! 

“And what are you doing now, Geraldine?” Harry 
Baldwin continued when I did not speak. “It isn’t easy to 
get engagements even with such a face as yours—there’s 
professional jealousy! Your money has been dribbling 
away while your anxiety has increased. Finally, chance 
puts in your way this opportunity of playing Madeline 
Montrose—you’re an actress, a little desperate, a great 
deal bitter—and you accept!” 

Harry Baldwin was quietly elated at the way he had 
pieced together the threads of my supposed story. And,, 
since he had it all worked out so well, why should I 
disillusion him? 

“Yes,” I responded, “I’m Geraldine Grey, or, rather, 
Gretchen May.” 

“You shouldn’t go around pretending to be Madeline,” 
he chided me. “It’s not fair to yourself. You’re much 
nicer than she is—but you haven’t told me what you are 
doing now.” 

I faced him defiantly. 

“Nothing at all.” 

“Now, listen here, Gretchen,” he began and then 
hesitated. 

Suddenly he flung away his cigarette and caught me 
roughly to him, pressed hard relentless kisses on my 


234 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


mouth—held me close to his strong body that was so 
unequivocal, so sure! 

“There,” he cried, breathing like a spent runner. 
“What’s the use of talk, I’m going to take you home 
with me, Gretchen!” 

His passion infected me. My breast rose and fell 
stormily. I wanted to weep. 

“Do you hear,” he repeated tensely. “I’m going to 
fake you home with me!” 

How everything was arranged! It was Fate. I was 
filled with a mild and childlike wonder that things should 
have been arranged so for me. Now I should not have 
to decide what to do. However, in spite of the state I 
was in, my inherent caution made its voice heard—faint, 
it is true, but unmistakable. 

“But,” I began hesitatingly. 

“Haven’t I told you there’s no use of talk?” Harry 
Baldwin interrupted with good-natured impatience. “I’ll 
not listen to any ‘buts’ . . . I’m going to take you 
home with me, Gretchen!” 

That settled it. I would as soon have thought of dis¬ 
agreeing as of dashing out my brains on the stone railing 
of the verandah. I mustn’t have any weak scruples. 
What was it ... ? I couldn’t seem to think clearly. 

. . . But Mr. Grimble and Herman May would have 
advised me to do this, I was sure. 

“I think I should like to go home with you,” I told him 
slowly. “You’re so nice and—usual! I don’t believe you 
would give me ivory Christs that I hated, or keep a lot 
of daggers and things that you made love to.” 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


235 


Harry Baldwin laughed, a great booming sound with 
an undercurrent of repressed excitement in it. 

“You adorable baby,” he exclaimed, kissing me again, 
“of course, I shouldn’t!” 

“But tell me something,” I begged, fearful again, trying 
to see into the very depths of his soul, “are you jealous?” 

He laughed again. 

“I should say not. I haven’t time. ‘The world is so 
full of a number of tilings,’ you know . . 

“I know,” I rejoined happily, “that’s Stevenson.” 

“Get your coat,” Harry Baldwin commanded now in 
a tone of brusque affection. “Mrs. Harris said I might 
drive you to town, if you were willing. Let’s go, what do 
you say?” 

The August moon hung like a great gold plate in the 
sky, the silence—odorous with the scent of flowering 
shrubs—pressed close to me like a fragrant garment, the 
white road along the sea seemed to beckon: Come, 
Gretchen. Come! 

“I’ll go with you,” I whispered to the looming shadow 
by my side. 

IY 

I awoke next day to surges of pain. Holding my 
throbbing temples tight between my hands, I sat up in 
bed and looked around the lurching room bewilderedly. 

The shades were drawn. That was queer. I always 
raised them to the top of the windows at night. . . . 
Gradually the rocking of the floor subsided. The furni¬ 
ture steadied itself. 


286 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


This was not my room at the hotel! Where was I? 

My green evening dress hung limply over the back of a 
chair with my neatly folded underclothes beside it. 

The bureau and chiffonier were covered with a man’s 
silver-backed toilet articles. Over the foot rail of the 
bed was flung a quilted dressing gown of thin purple silk. 
The pillow beside me still held the imprint of a head. 

Recollection came bit by bit, and with it such a wave 
of self-loathing that I thought it would choke me. 

I jumped out of bed, almost screaming at the pain 
the effort caused me. The room began its dizzy revolving 
again, but I gritted my teeth, determined not to yield. 
Presently things stood still once more, and I could remove 
my hands from my head. 

There was a long mirror in a door in front of me, and, 
if I had not been so miserable, I should have laughed at 
my comical reflection. 

I was wearing a pair of men’s pajamas, so voluminous 
that I was quite lost in their folds. The sleeves were 
rolled above my elbows, but the long trousers hung in a 
terraced expanse of wrinkles, covering all my feet but the 
toes. My hair was a flaming mass of disorder. In the 
paper white of my face, my eyes looked like great holes 
burnt in a blanket. 

My mouth was dry and felt as if it were lined with fur. 
There was a pitcher of iced water on a little stand. I 
poured out a glassful and drank it eagerly, then sat down 
on the bed to consider what to do. 

The dinner at Villa Alba—the cocktails—the wine dur¬ 
ing dinner—the champagne afterward—Harry Baldwin 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


237 


our talk on the verandah. . . . The whole procession 
of events passed before me kaleidoscopically. 

Only one thing was certain: I must get out of this place 
as quickly as possible—away from Harry Baldwin. 
Where was he? 

I slipped out of the absurd pajamas and began to 
dress. Then I remembered. I had nothing with me but 
the clothes I had worn the night before. I could not go 
on the streets in the day-time clad in evening dress and 
silver slippers! I sank down on the bed with a groan of 
utter despair. 

There was a discreet knock on the door. 

Spurred to action, I wrapped myself frenziedly in the 
purple dressing gown. 

“What is it?” I inquired guardedly. 

The door opened about four inches and a little yellow 
hand bearing a glass was pushed through. 

“Mr. Baldwin ordered me to give this to madame when 
she awoke,” explained a carefully modulated male voice 
from the other side. “It is Bro-mo Sel-zer. It will be 
good for madame. One pours in water and stirs.” 

“Where is Mr. Baldwin?” I asked, taking the proffered 
glass. 

“He went away at lunch time. He said that he would 
return to take madame for dinner.” 

“What time is it now?” 

“I will see.” 

“It is a half past five o’clock, madame,” the grave, 
respectful voice replied. 


238 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


“Half-past five,” I exclaimed in consternation. “In 
the evening?” 

“In the evening.” 

There was not a hint of amusement in the tone of that 
admirable servant. “The bath is adjoined,” he added, 
and then closed the door noiselessly. 

I took the foaming drink after which I felt more able 
to cope with the situation. But first, I must dress. I did 
not want Harry Baldwin to return and find me in his 
bedroom. 

A cold bath and a vigorous rub afterward did much to 
complete my cure. By the time I had fastened the last 
snapper of my dress there was nothing to indicate my 
recent indisposition except that furry feel of my mouth 
and a tendency on the part of the floor to glide away 
from me unless I walked carefully. 

I opened the door through which the servant had talked 
to me and found myself in a sitting room that I dimly 
recalled having seen before. 

I sat down in a huge, over-stuffed chair and resolutely 
brought the poor fragments of my mind to bear on the 
problem at hand. 

The first thing that crashed upon me, and beyond which 
I seemed not to be able to get was this: I had gone home 
with a man whom I had known only four or five hours— 
had slept with him. 

The fact of my condition only made it the more 
shameful. That I was attracted by Harry Baldwin in a 
way that my husband had never attracted me was no 


excuse. 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


289 


I must face the bald truth of my action, unadorned by 
any sentimental frills. 

This I had done. Now what should I do with it? 

My meditations were interrupted by the silent entrance 
of a little Chinese man bearing a tea tray. 

He moved a table near me, set down the tray, and, 
without having glanced at me once, departed as silently 
as he had come. 

I stopped him before he reached the door. 

He turned and looked at me, not a flicker of expression 
in his shoe-button eyes. There was something timeless in 
the patient, mask-like face. He comforted me, this mys¬ 
terious yellow man, as one is comforted by mountains, 
or ancient rocks, or the sea. 

“What is your name?” I asked him. 

“Wong, madame,” he replied. 

“That is all. Thank you, Wong.” 

He bowed deeply and disappeared. 

y 

Sipping the pale, fragrant tea that Wong had brought 
me, I thought with yearning regret of my quiet days at 
the little hotel when I had believed I was dead. 

It was a lie, a cruel lie, behind which my desires had 
hid themselves and gained strength until the time came 
when they could rush forth and shatter my peace forever. 

Peace . . . ! That was what I wanted more than any¬ 
thing in the world. But there was a part of me that 
forbade it. I wanted the peace of the aged, of the dead. 


240 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


But I was young and alive with instincts that clamored 
for satisfaction. The two would not be reconciled. 

Last night I had rendered to Caesar—to-day I must 
render to God. But there was no distinguishing between 
what belonged to each. 

“Don’t be an idiot, Gretchen,” something said within 
me, “you’ve done what you’ve done. No use to cry over 
spilt milk. Besides, there was Grimble—and DuVal—you 
know!” 

I recognized the smooth logic of Herman May in those 
words. Ah, he knew how to distinguish! But there was 
another voice, an implacable, plaintive voice, that would 
have its say: 

“You were not forced to this step, Gretchen. It was 
lust—and champagne—that brought you here. You have 
sinned!” 

Back and forth they fought for my soul: my father and 
my mother, 

I had thought that her thin protests had been stilled 
forever on the night of Jake’s death, but she had persisted 
in me, stronger than I ever would have dreamed. Yet, 
Herman May was stronger. . . . And neither was I. 

Leaning back wearily in the big chair, spent with the 
struggle, I tasted again the sweetness of incorruptible 
individuality. 

“No, I am I. Neither your expediency, nor your fear¬ 
ful cringing can dominate me. I do what I must. I suffer 
what is necessary. But I will not be blinded to the truth 
of what I do, nor will I suffer needlessly. . . . My sur¬ 
render last night was an escape, just as my surrenders 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


241 


to Grimble and DuVal were escapes. But I am not sure 
that the alternative in any case would have been easier 
to bear or better. Because my body is pleased with 
Harry Baldwin, is that a reason for denying my body? 
My marriage to DuVal was the greater evil, because there 
was not even the excuse of desire for living with him. 
He treated me as a mistress—well, if I am to be a man’s 
mistress, it is right that I should be pleased with the 
man. . . . Something had to be done. I could not go on 
forever at the hotel. Is it better to sell oneself to a cor¬ 
poration for twenty dollars a week, or to a man? . . . 
Thanks to you, Herman May, I have nothing to bargain 
with but my body. Thanks to you, I demand the greatest 
price for what I have to sell. But no thanks to you—or 
you, that I shall keep my real self inviolate whatever I 
may have to do!” 

At a quarter to seven, Harry Baldwin burst into the 
room and found me sitting in the big chair with a smile 
on my lips. 

“Gee, but I’ve had a day of it,” he cried, kissing me 
emphatically. “How are you, Gretchen? Did Wong look 
after you? When I left you were sleeping like a top!” 

“I suppose you know that I’d had too much to drink 
last night—I didn’t know—I’ve never been—(I hesitated 
over the shameful word and then brought it out bravely) 
drunk before.” 

“Oh, sure,” Harry Baldwin disposed of my explanation 
cheerfully. “We were all mixing ’em a little recklessly. 
No harm done, though, unless—you aren’t sorry, are you, 
Gretchen ?” 


242 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


“I was at first, but Pm not now.” 

“Fine! I didn’t dare count on you, but I wanted to 
do my share so that, if you decided to stay, it would be 
ready for you. I’ve been apartment hunting all day, 
Gretchen, and I’ve found a peach of a place. You’ll be 
crazy about it!” 

It was impossible to resist the infectious enthusiasm 
in his voice. 

“Where?” I asked eagerly, in spite of myself. 

“On the Drive—but just you wait till you see it! I’ll 
take you over after dinner.” 

“But I must go back to the hotel and ” 

“Fve done all that,” he interrupted. “Your bag’s there 
and we can get a trunk and some things for you 
to-morrow.” 

“How did you know where I was staying?” I wondered. 

“You told me last night—don’t you remember?” 

I shook my head, ashamed to admit the truth. 

Harry Baldwin laughed. 

“You were so darned funny and sweet, Gretchen. 
You’ve made a new man of me already. I’m a fool about 
you __ you know that, don’t you? ... I’m forty years 
old, Gretchen. There’ve been women, of course, loads of 
’em. . . . But I’ve never felt about anybody like I feel 
about you. . . . Let’s go to get some dinner,” he broke 
off as if ashamed of his display of feeling. 

While we ate, I told Harry Baldwin about DuVal and 
my running away. I did not want to deceive him. Per¬ 
haps, too, there was in my telling some idea of raising 
myself in his estimation. I did not like the role of a dis- 



WINDOWS FACING WEST 


243 


carded film actress. “That’s why I haven’t a trunk,” I 
ended somewhat irrelevantly. 

“The low-down dog,” he muttered when I had finished. 
“Don’t think about it any more than you can help. . . . 
And I’ll promise you one thing, Gretchen, I’ll always give 
you a square deal!” 

It was after nine when we reached the big apartment 
house where I was to begin my new life. 

Harry Baldwin gave me the key and watched my face 
excitedly as we went from room to room. There were 
five rooms and two baths. A living room and bedroom 
facing the Drive, and back of these, with windows on the 
side street, dining room, kitchen and servant’s room. 

From the living room windows I looked out on the 
black, enigmatic river with its freight of lighted ships 
plying up and down—back and forth. 

They fascinated me. I could have stood there and 
watched them for hours, but Harry Baldwin was waiting 
for me to speak. 

“Like it, Gretchen?” he asked. 

DuVal had asked me the same question not quite a year 
ago! 

“Yes, Harry, I like it. . . . I’ll stay here, stay with 
you.” 

Harry Baldwin took me in his arms. 

“There’s one thing more,” he said. “I’m going to give 
you Wong.” 

VI 

That day was characteristic of Harry Baldwin. He 
was essentially the man of action. He could make and 


244 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


execute a decision while most people were occupied with 
getting the facts of the case. 

His panacea for all bodily and spiritual ills was: Let’s 
do something—see a show, go for a drive, give a party. 

His enthusiasm for life was boundless. Each day was 
a new and glorious challenge. One would think that forty 
years of it would have left him a little jaded. I was only 
twenty-two when I went to live with him. Yet already I 
was asking a trifle wearily what it was all about. 

Harry was a self-made man. Perhaps, that accounted 
for it. At the time when most people are getting their 
experience, he had been grinding away at his job 
pushing ahead to success—with never a thought that life 
might hold other interests than silk mills. He was a 
prodigiously hard worker. Even when I met him he spent 
three fourths of his time attending to business in and 
out of town, although he might have retired, if he had 
wished. 

His disposition affected me like a bracing tonic. For 
a long time I was happy with Harry Baldwin—happier 
than I had been with DuVal, in every respect but one. 
The irregularity of our relation made friendships impos¬ 
sible, except with the type of people for whom I did not 
care. Even at the worst with DuVal, there had been 
Marjorie. Now I had cut myself away from the possi¬ 
bility of knowing women like herself—I had cut myself 
away from her. That was the hardest thing. I dare say 
she would have understood, if I had written her (she was 
tolerant enough of others) but I could not bring myself 
to do it. It would be unfair, I felt. I knew that Marjorie 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


245 


loved me, and I wanted to keep that memory as a perfect 
thing. 

I suppose I was too proud and too fearful that she 
m ight j U( lge me harshly. Whatever the reason, I never 
wrote, although I often imagined long talks between us, 
and for a time set down my thoughts in a sort of journal 
that was meant for Marjorie’s eyes alone. 

My life in the fifth floor apartment had settled rapidly 
into a routine as monotonous and respectable as if I had 
been legally married. Wong was a combined cook, maid, 
laundress, butler and mother to me. At Harry’s sugges¬ 
tion that I should have another servant to assist him, he 
looked so forlorn that I vetoed the idea. Wong watched 
over me with a slavish concern that was never obtrusive. 
The little man loved me almost from the first, I am sure, 
although he never has understood me, quite. There was 
a bond of some sort between us, intangible, but very real. 

For more than a year I was contented to live in my 
senses. All the time, I suppose, my mind had been 
groping and growing, but so secretly that I was not aware 
of having a mind at all—until one morning I awoke dis¬ 
contentedly in my sun-flooded room and realized that I 
was not satisfied any longer. The old, aching urge had 
returned stronger than ever. 

We were giving a party that night. Harry had a 
great many friends of different types, but they were all 
sufficiently tolerant to overlook the unconventionality of 
our life together—quite willing to spend an evening in 
my apartment, although I was never invited to their 
homes. Harry was very rich, and I have observed that 


246 WINDOWS FACING WEST 

wealth has the effect of broadening people’s minds to an 
astonishing degree. 

I always dreaded these parties, though I would not have 
admitted it to Harry for the world. He took an enormous 
pleasure in bedecking me with expensive gowns and jewels 
and showing me off. 

The people would come drifting in; more or less con¬ 
ventional women with a subdued excitement in their man¬ 
ner at this very adventurous step they had taken; act¬ 
resses, egotistic and unconcerned with adoring men in 
tow; men of all ages, kinds and conditions whose manner 
to me was always the same: a mixture of discretion and 
scarcely concealed desire. 

All the women would subtly patronize me—the men 
would as subtly make love to me. . . . There would be 
a little music, a little meaningless conversation a great 
deal to eat and drink. Vile! Vile! 

I went through the day in a hideous humor. Poor 
Wong could not imagine what was the matter. Were the 
eggs too done? Had the broiler been scorched? Perhaps 
I was not well? 

Harry came while I was dressing. 

“I’ve a surprise for you to-night, darling, he said, 
leaning down and kissing my bare shoulder as I sat before 
the mirror pinning up my hair. 

“I don’t like surprises,” I exclaimed petulantly, moving 
away from him. 

The good humor did not leave his face. 

“Oh, you’ll like this one, I know.” 

How good he was to me, I thought, watching him in 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


247 


the mirror. How honest, and even-tempered and good 
he was! I was the most ungrateful creature alive. 

“Pm sure I’ll like it,” I cried, swiftly penitent, rising 
to throw my arms about his neck. “You’re so good Harry, 
—so certain of yourself. I wish I were that way!” 

But even as I spoke, I knew it was a lie. I would not 
give that aching disquiet within me for any security and 
goodness. That was my young soul’s growing pains. 

Wong was reassured at dinner. My bad humor had 
magically vanished. I was gay and irresponsible. 

The change lasted into the evening. I recklessly faced 
down bad mannered old dowagers who looked at me as if 
I were a new and strange kind of animal. I baited the 
men until they fled in self-defense to less provocative 
quarters. 

“Do you live quite alone?” an angular woman with an 
air of slumming asked me impertinently. 

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Greyfield, I live quite alone—except, of 
course, when Harry comes. The solitude is wonderful and 
then the companionship is even more wonderful after¬ 
wards. You should try it. It is good for one’s soul.” 

“Oh,” she exclaimed indignantly as she dared in a voice 
of outraged respectability, “oh!” 

I was still smiling amusedly at this little incident when 
Wong ushered a new couple into the room. Harry hur¬ 
ried up to receive them and brought them over to me. As 
I caught sight of the woman’s face, the smile froze on my 
lips. The room had grown suddenly quiet, but I seemed 
to hear a noise of thundering waters in my brain. 


248 WINDOWS FACING WEST 

The woman advancing towards me was Madeline 
Montrose. 

At the time I was too astonished to observe clearly, or 
I would have noticed that she looked as astonished as I 
felt. Afterwards in recalling the incident, it flashed over 
me that the look in her face had been one of stark fear. 

A cold exultation took possession of me. At last! 
At last! This was to be my hour. 

I bowed to the beautiful woman and her insignificant 
escort who peered at me sharply and mumbled something 
in an undertone which I did not catch. 

Harry was enjoying vastly the effect his “surprise” 
had produced. The whole room could talk of nothing but 
the uncanny resemblance between Miss Montrose and me, 
and every word of it only increased my desire for revenge. 

It was much later before I found an opportunity to 
speak to Miss Montrose alone. 

“I enjoyed your last picture but one so much,” I told 
her. 

She smiled graciously, but with a flicker of nervousness 
appearing in her famous eyes. 

“I worked so hard to make ‘The Gorgon’s Head’ just 
right,” she said plaintively, “I’m glad you liked it.” 

“Oh, I don’t mean ‘The Gorgon’s Head’,” I protested 
smiling. “It was ‘The Rose of Arcady’ that I admired!” 

Harry joined us before she could answer, and presently 
the little man who had come with her, trotted up. Fre¬ 
quent libations had loosened his tongue. He was jovially 
garrulous. 

“You’re the little girl that cost me such a great lot of 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


249 


money last year,” he said to me. “Now aren’t you 
ashamed of yourself!” 

“Hush, Ben,” Miss Montrose commanded nervously. 

“Hush? I will not,” he refused. “This little girl cost 
me a great lot of money before I could get her out of 
the profession. Now aren’t you glad I did, Miss May? 
You should be happier here with a swell apartment and a 
fine man like Harry than working yourself to death in a 
studio, nichtV * 

I only smiled at Madeline Montrose. 

“Oh, Ben,” she ejaculated, helplessly furious. 

“When did you pay to get me out of the profession, 
Mr. Arnheim?” I asked, enjoying Miss Montrose’s dis¬ 
comfiture. 

“When did I pay?” Mr. Arnheim repeated loudly and 
jocularly, “last July, a year ago, I signed a check made 
out to Bob Grimble, and it was a shameful big one at 
that.” 

“Then, Mr. Arnheim, I fear you’ve wasted a great lot 
of money,” I laughed, “because I left the Unlimited almost 
a year before that check was signed.” 

Madeline Montrose’s face showed a greenish tinge under 
its paint. Her fingers twisted and twisted a long neck¬ 
lace that she wore. I noticed that she kept moistening 
her lips feverishly. 

“What—what’s that you say,” Mr. Arnheim stuttered. 
“You are surely mistaken —lieber Gott, so much money 
und warum?” 

The little man was in a pitiable state. Warum , he kept 
repeating in panicky, wrathful accents. 


250 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


“ Ach he cried suddenly triumphant, “you are joking.” 
He mopped his brow with a great silk handkerchief, a 
smile of relief struggled to the swart surface of his face. 
“The picture was not finished until July when I signed 
that check. They told me so. I know it!” 

I could have embraced him! He was making it so easy 
for me. I raised my hands negligently and rearranged a 
hair pin. In this moment of suspense I tasted the sweet¬ 
ness of victory. I would soon be even with Madeline 
Montrose. She would soon be paid off in her own coin 
and with interest. 

“Exactly,” I said, not looking at her. 

Mr. Arnheim darted a quick, suspicious glance at his 
star. Harry moved from one foot to the other. I was 
the only self-possessed person in the little group. 

“But why,” Mr. Arnheim demanded, “why, I ask you, 
should a company hold over a picture for a year before 
producing it, if it mas finished , and if it wasn’t . . . /” 

I shrugged my shoulders indifferently, and looked 
away, leaving him to draw his own conclusions. 

As I turned away from Mr. Arnheim’s stare, my eye 
fell on a big, gold-framed mirror on the wall opposite. I 
started at my own reflection, gazed with horrified fascina¬ 
tion at the expression on my face. It was base—mean! 
Where had I seen such a look before! And then I remem¬ 
bered the night DuVal and Lilia Bingham had found me 
in the music room at Marjorie’s with Mint Collins. She 
had worn such a look! And it had frightened me, I 
remembered, because of its very baseness! 

Ah, God, was I then no better than what I scorned! 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


251 


Would I never reach the nobility of spirit for which I 
longed! 

I turned back to Mr. Arnheim and managed a teasing 
laugh. 

“Don’t you know that I was just joking—taking my 
revenge on you for having got me out of the profession! 
You big business men are credulous to let a woman get 
the best of you so easily!” 

Relief flowed into Madeline Montrose’s set face. She 
laughed excitedly. 

“You were a scream, Ben,” she announced. “I couldn’t 
say a word for just watching you. Wasn’t he, Harry?” 

Harry nodded gravely, his eyes never leaving me. 

Mr. Arnheim smiled, a trifle uneasily. 

“Well, you are some little joker, Miss May, and now 
after such a scare, I think Madeline had better take me 
home and get me over it!” 

“Yes, we’d better go,” Miss Montrose agreed eagerly. 
“Good-night, Miss May—good-night, Harry.” 

Smilingly supercilious, she gave me the tips of her 
white fingers and floated from the room with little Mr. 
Arnheim at her heels. 

“You’re splendid, Gretchen—splendid, girl,” said 
Harry gravely. “If I’d suspected anything of the kind, 
I’d never have asked her to, come, but I thought it would 
amuse you to see her.” 

“I wouldn’t have missed it for anything,” I told him 
sincerely. 

Yes, I was base. But I had made a start. I had won 
a victory. All hate and resentment were washed clean 


252 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


from me. If I thought of Madeline Montrose again, it 
would be with pity. She was welcome to her fame. 

VII 

Harry’s mill interests kept him out of town a great 
part of the time, and this fact which had at first been 
my chief grievance, was now a blessing; for I wanted noth¬ 
ing so much as to be alone—to think—to get adjusted 
to myself, as it were. 

Sometimes, I think that a just God created the business 
trip in order to give women a chance to find their souls. 

If I talk a good deal of souls it is because at that time 
I thought a good deal about them. I do not quite know 
what I meant by the term—certainly not what my mother 
had meant in her long talks to me about salvation and 
so on. The soul, to me, was not something with which one 
was born, like heart and lungs and stomach, and which 
one guarded carefully here so that it might in the end 
enjoy a carefree life in Paradise. The soul was rather 
a thing which one assembled laboriously and in travail. 
It grew bit by bit out of one’s joy and suffering. Dis¬ 
content was the gauge by which one measured its prog¬ 
ress. And its raison d'etre was to be found in the here 
and now. To understand all things—to achieve tolerance 
without compromise or loss of vision—to love humanity 
—above all, to love oneself—to be deeply centered and 
rooted in self without which one can not hope to help 
others—last of all, to come to see more clearly—to point 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


253 


the way ahead, even if it be but a step further on. . . . 
That was what I wanted a soul for. 

At first when I felt my restlessness returning, I had 
cast about wildly for something to do. Pictures were out 
of the question —that was definitely over. But I must 
have something with which to occupy my time. I thought 
of the stage. There was an appeal in footlights and 
paint and applause! 

I began haunting matinees and schools of acting. The 
pile of catalogs in my locked desk drawer increased daily. 

Finally, I summoned courage to speak to Harry. 

When I had finished somewhat breathlessly, he pursed 
his lips in a tuneless whistle. 

“Why, Gretchen, dear, you don’t know what you’re 
asking,” he said at last. “Do you know that you’d have 
to study a year or two—and then not be guaranteed a 
part. And, if you should succeed, you’d have rehearsals 
night and day, and after the show started you’d be away 
every evening until half-past eleven or twelve o’clock when 
you’d come back dead tired!” 

“I never thought of that,” I replied, staring back at 
him miserably. In fact, I had not considered Harry’s 
side of the case at all. Of course, he wanted me in the 
evenings. That was why I was here! 

“I love you too much to give you up, dearest,” he went 
on. “And I don’t believe you’d like the stage—it’s a dog’s 
life.” 

“Perhaps I shouldn’t,” I agreed flatly. The elation 
that had kept me going during the past weeks subsided. 


254 WINDOWS FACING WEST 

A sense of mj own futility rushed damningly over me 
again. 

“You put that thought out of your head and run down 
town this afternoon and buy yourself something pretty! 

Harry sat down at my little ebony desk and wrote a 
check. It was for a thousand dollars. 

“Now I’ve got to run,” he said, handing it to me. “Get 
that mink coat you liked, or a new ring, or do any damned 
thing with it you want to! It’s yours.” 

That was Harry’s way. But I did not want a mink 
coat. I wanted something to do—something to get my 
teeth in and struggle with. And Harry could not under¬ 
stand that. My talk of souls and purposes made him 
uneasy. 

At the first reference, he had stirred in his chair and 
suggested that we go to a show. Next time I knew he 
would tell me I was ill and advise a doctor, or a week-end 
at the seashore. The third time, I rather thought Harry 
would lose patience and leave me. 

But I did not intend that even the second time should 
occur. My speculations about life, Harry regarded as 
symptoms of neurasthenia. That much I had seen on the 
one occasion when I had tried to confide in him. After 
that my inner life was a closed book to the man with whom 
I lived. 

It was to little Wong that I turned. He seemed to 
have much that I sought. I took to watching him closely 
to surprise the secret of his calm. He was rooted in self 
if anyone ever was. And I suspected that Wong under¬ 
stood many things, too. Otherwise, how could he main- 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 255 

tain the unshakable patience that was so great a part of 
him? 

Wong, I said suddenly at luncheon as he was bring¬ 
ing in the dessert, “Wong, don’t you hate doing this sort 
of thing—cooking and cleaning and serving at table?” 

He looked at me impassively, his yellow face an im¬ 
penetrable secret. 

“My father,” he replied gravely at last, “rich tea mer¬ 
chant in Canton, yet he, too, serves, madame.” 

I felt reproached—and at the same time elated. I had 
wrung something from the Sphinx. To Serve! Surely, 
that was the key to life’s meaning. 

VIII 

To Serve! But whom, or what? 

I knew that no further help was to be had from Wong. 
It was his way to utter an occasional cryptic remark and 
leave it unexplained. Nor did I ever press him to be more 
explicit. 

His reticences were a part of the mystery surrounding 
my servant, and so in love was I with the mystery that 
I never sought, except indirectly, to fathom his mental 
processes or to discover his antecedents. 

Our first meeting had become symbolic of our relation. 
He was still a grave voice from the other side of a door, 
a slim yellow hand reached out to help me, but always with 
that barrier between. If I should become too importu¬ 
nate, I was sure the door would close—noiselessly, re¬ 
spectfully, but tight! 


256 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


In the afternoon I went to my bedroom to think. But 
the place was too reminiscent of Harry. There were 
emotional overtones. The living room was better, but 
there the ghosts of parties lingered, besides, it was too big. 

In despair, I wandered into the little alcove at one end 
of the room and pulled the green curtains together behind 
me. Here I found what I wanted—utter seclusion. I 
piled the pillows into a great nest on the broad window 
seat and lay flat on my back looking up at the June sky 
that was so like a lapis lazuli bowl Harry had given me. 

I am afraid I did not think in the accepted sense at all. 
Rather, I felt intensely, all my life floated before me in 
little monochromes. I saw the child Gretchen in a stiffly 
starched, percale dress asking her omnipotent father for 
money to buy “Alice in Wonderland,” I saw mother’s 
thin, sallow face working with emotion as she plead with 
me to join the church and be saved. I saw Marion Fairley 
leaning very close as she whispered the story of how babies 
came. I saw Jake’s blond head thrust comically over the 
thread cases behind which I sat sobbing over poor Tess. 
I saw Mr. Grimble’s leer when he offered the astounding 
information about the pictured beauties on his office walls. 
I saw Alicia’s upturned face, mutely questioning me. I 
saw Marjorie in her gleaming black dress moving among 
her guests with a smile on her lips and only God knew 
what anguish in her heart. ... 

Oh, there were many things that passed through my 
head. But there seemed to be no relation between them. 
They flitted in and out like restless moths. 

Suddenly I sprang up from the window seat and left 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 257 

the alcove. Wong was just entering the living room with 
a tea tray. 

IX 

That afternoon’s was the first of many meditations at 
the windows. And, gradually, out of the chaos one 
thought emerged clear and definite. 

I wanted to serve women. 

How, I did not know. 

I spent long mornings in the department stores ques¬ 
tioning shopgirls whenever an opportunity occurred. I 
talked with scrubwomen and beggars and the guests at 
Harry’s parties. 

Those lowest in the social scale were most unreserved. 
The stories they poured so eagerly into my ears, those 
derelicts and drudges! Stories of tyranny and brutality 
and lust—of drunkenness and greed. . . . And always 
there was a man who was to blame for their wretchedness. 

My increasing love for women began to express itself 
in a corresponding hatred of men. 

I burned to avenge those unfortunate ones to whom life 
had been more unkind than to me. 

And still I hesitated, because I did not know how to 
begin. 

One Saturday afternoon in late September as I was 
hurrying home from a solitary drive that had taken me 
into all sorts of out-of-the-way corners of New York, I 
was halted at Fifth Avenue until a parade could pass. 

It was a parade of women. 


258 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


Curious, I left my automobile and pressed forward 
through gaps in the crowd until I reached the curb. 

Down the Avenue marched the long line of white-clad 
women. There were floats and bands and banners, but 
most impressive to me was the look on their proudly raised 
faces. Hope was there and indomitable courage, and 
defiance and vision. 

The ribald grins of the bystanders and their occasional 
jeering remarks were sacrilege. This was a religious rite. 
I was completely lifted out of myself by a rush of emotion. 
I wanted to join the marching women and follow them 
wherever they might lead. 

Now I knew how I could serve. Or, I thought I knew, 
though even then I was conscious of a doubt that this 
would prove to be the solution of my problem. 

Now, of course, I know the reason for my misgiving, 
and I know that it was warranted. But at the time it 
was nothing more definite than the vague stirrings of an 
instinct. 

X 

On Monday morning I ordered my car from the garage 
and drove to the headquarters of what I regarded as the 
principal suffrage organization in the city. 

Two women sat working in the big office which I entered. 
Their desks were separated by a low railing from the rest 
of the room that contained a few chairs, a long table 
littered with pamphlets and leaflets, and shelves on which 
were piled other suffrage literature. The walls were 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


259 


decorated with signed photographs of prominent sup¬ 
porters of the movement, and brightly colored posters. 

One of these caught my eye as I entered. “Votes for 
Women” it insisted in black letters half a foot high. 

Why just votes, I wondered idly. Women needed so 
many things. And after having witnessed that parade, 
I was sure they had only to demand what they wanted, 
and it would come inevitably. Still, there must be a 
beginning made—one thing at a time. I must curb my 
impatience. 

I explained my errand to one of the women who had 
come forward. 

She surveyed me from head to foot. 

“I’ll take you in to the Secretary,” she said at last, 
evidently impressed by my Hickson gown and sable 
neckpiece. 

The Secretary was a middle-aged spectacled woman 
whose keen grey eyes surveyed me much as the clerk’s in 
the outer office had done. 

“You want to help,” she said in a quick, authoritative 
voice. “We are very much in need of supporters, Miss 
May. The expenses of the campaign are considerable, 
and there is, of course, a great deal to be done. . . .” 

“Oh, I’ll give every penny I own,” I interrupted 
eagerly, “but what I most want is to do something—to 
have the feeling of being a part of it. It is such a 
tremendously big and important work, Mrs. Daggett!” 

Mrs. Daggett’s somewhat grim face relaxed in an ap¬ 
proving smile. 

“That is the spirit we are finding everywhere,” she 


260 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


informed me, “and it is that which makes our victory 
assured—for we are going to win, we must win!” 

“We must win,” I echoed fervently. 

“I think we can use you, Miss May,” she said after a 
pause. “In fact, I am sure we can. But I must see where 
you will fit in best. Have you had any experience in or¬ 
ganization work, or publicity, or speaking, or anything 
of the kind?” 

“No,” I admitted humbly, “but I am sure I could 
learn. . . .” 

“Come in tomorrow afternoon,” she said, “and I’ll 
assign some work to you.” 

There was a brief exchange of formalities, and then I 
was floating down the long hallway to the elevator, so 
happy that my feet seemed not to be touching the solid 
earth at all. 

On the street someone called my name excitedly. 

I came out of my abstraction to find Mint Collins 
beaming down at me. 

XI 

“Good heavens, Gretchen,” he greeted me, “you look 
like you’ve found the philosopher’s stone! I had to speak 
to you three times before you even heard me. How do 
you do it?” 

“Perhaps I have,” I rejoined, “or something almost as 
good. How are you, Mint?” 

“Best in the world. How are you?” 

“Fine—I’ve left DuVal, you know.” 

Mint’s face grew very grave. 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


261 


“I know,” he said regretfully. 

“You’ve seen him then?” 

He hesitated a moment while he seemed to be making 
up his mind about something. 

“DuVal looked me up on the coast last winter,” he said 
finally. “He told me then about the divorce.” 

“The divorce,” I exclaimed. 

“What are you doing?” Mint asked. “I’m to meet a 
chap at the Algonquin at one. Can’t you have lunch with 
us ? I’d like to have talk with you, and I’m leaving town 
this afternoon.” 

“Yes—I can.” 

I let Mint call a taxi, though my own car was within a 
few blocks distance. He might suspect how I was living, 
but he should not have proof positive, if I could help it. 

“You’re looking splendidly, Gretchen. It’s good to see 
you again. What are you doing with yourself ?” 

“I’m going in for suffrage, Mint . . . but let’s don’t 
talk about me. Tell me what DuVal had to say?” 

“Not much. DuVal’s as proud as Lucifer, you know. 
He simply told me that you had left him—that he didn’t 
know where you were, had never tried to find out, in fact. 
And that he’d been in Reno getting a divorce. I was 
surprised that he’d care to see me again. We were not 
on very good terms when I left, you remember.” 

“He always cared more for you than for me.” 

“Nonsense,” Mint laughed. “He was mad about you, 
Gretchen. Is still, I suspect. He didn’t look very happy 
with his freedom.” 

“Then he got the divorce without any difficulty?” 


262 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


“Oh, yes,” said Mint. 

“Tell me,” I begged, “have you seen Marjorie?” 

He shook his head gloomily. 

“DuVal gave me the news. She’s adopted a baby. A 
Baby—! I don’t want to see her in her new role. . . . 
She probably wouldn’t let me come anyway.” 

“This chap who’s lunching with me,” Mint explained 
as we entered the hotel, “is from California—an artist. 
He came on as I did and is going to be here for a couple 
of months. Awfully fine boy. If you have time, and he 
doesn’t bore you, I hope you’ll show him around a bit. 
He’s never been to New York before.” 

I had never known an artist. At Mint’s words, I pic¬ 
tured a pale, slim and nervous youth who perhaps wore 
flowing ties. My heart sank at the prospect of god¬ 
mothering such a person for even two months. But I was 
very fond of Mint. 

“I’ll be glad to show him around,” I said, “if he isn’t 
bored by me.” 

“Good girl! You won’t bore him. You’re much too 
paintable for that, aside from your innate inability to 
bore anyone. By the way, what do you call yourself now, 
Gretchen?” 

“Gretchen May—I couldn’t very well go on being Mrs. 
Archer, after—after I went away.” 

A tawny-eyed, black-haired tornado descended upon us. 

“It’s great—simply great, Mint,” the man cried. “I 
haven’t stopped a minute. I’ve been down in Bleecker 
Street sketching. Have you ever been to the movie, 
theater there? They showed ‘The Old Nest’ this morning 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


263 


and the audience wept! Yes ! Can you imagine a metro¬ 
politan audience sobbing over the wandering boy? They 
do there. And the photographers’ shops where they dis¬ 
play tinted and enlarged pictures of girls in their 
confirmation dresses—and those enchanting bakeries 
and-” 

“Hear, hear,” Mint interrupted laughingly. “Miss 
May, may I present Mr. Cameron?” 

“Are you with him? I never heard of such luck. Are 
you going to have lunch with us? I’m starved.” 

“We’ve only been waiting for you, young animal,” Mint 
informed our dazzling companion. 

“Yesterday I stayed down on the Bowery (is that 
right?) for hours,” Mr. Cameron ran on. “Have you 
ever been in the barber shops, Miss May, where they have 
the Black Eyes Made Natural signs in the windows—or 
have you bought pink suspenders and peanut brittle from 
a push cart—or dined in a Yiddish restaurant where they 
assassinate you if you inadvertently order ham and eggs 
—or visited the little brass places on . . . What street 
is it, Mint?” 

“You’ve got me there,” Mint admitted good-naturedly. 
“He’s been in New York a week, Gretchen, and he already 
knows it better than I do.” 

“I’m glad your name is Gretchen. Have you ever seen 
such hair, Mint? May I paint you sometime?” 

“Maybe,” I smiled. 

“I’ve a studio in a funny brick house that has a tree 
growing through the roof or the fire-escape or something. 
... You should see it. Or perhaps you don’t like that 



264 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


sort of thing—? Mint doesn’t, but then, Mint is hope¬ 
lessly conservative and respectable. Are you, too?” 

“Neither,” I denied. 

“Neither am I,” he said happily. “Please don’t mind 
if I talk you to death. I’m not always so—ebullient, but 
then, I haven’t always been in this New York!” 

“I understand,” I told him, “because I love it, too.” 

“You do? Then will you explore with me? Mint’s 
leaving this afternoon. He’s no good anyway, but I 
don’t know anyone else so I cling to him from sheer 
desperation!” 

“If you don’t quit raving like a boarding school girl, 
Gretchen will repent of her promise to show you around,” 
Mint threatened with mock seriousness. 

“Has she promised? Mint, you are good for some¬ 
thing! I apologize for my recent remarks about you. 
You have rare gleams of imagination in spite of your 
inability to find romance in places other than the Stock 
Exchange! Now I’ll hush and talk sensibly for a while.” 

It was impossible for him to do either. 

During luncheon he kept both of us in gales of laughter 
with his whimsical nonsense. But it was to me that he 
addressed himself chiefly. 

Mint looked on with a teasing light in his eyes as if he 
understood very well the trend of things. 

But I am sure Mint did not guess that Roger Cameron 
in half an hour had spoken to my heart in a way that no 
other man had ever done. 

I have always known my own kind instinctively. There 
is no way of explaining why one is attracted to one person 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 265 

and repelled by another. It is not reasoned or logical— 
it just is. 

So now, looking into the yellow eyes of this Cameron 
and listening to his talk, I felt that he was the man with 
whom I might have been supremely happy. Before we 
had left the hotel I knew that, unless I was careful, I 
should fall in love with Mint’s artist. 

“We’ll see you to the station, won’t we?” Roger Cam¬ 
eron said, turning to me on the last words. 

I hesitated. 

“Oh, come on, please,” he urged. “Mint is going away 
and we may never see him again. And, if you don’t, I 
may never find my way out of that awful labyrinth. 
Think of it! I might get lost and wander for days— 
months—years, without seeing the sun again. There 
wouldn’t even be the traditional roots and berries of lost 
children for me to subsist on. Please save me from an 
awful fate!” 

I went. 

Mint’s train did not leave for half an hour. A few 
minutes before it was due, Roger Cameron tore away from 
us on some pretext and went dashing from the waiting 
room as if pursued by furies. 

Mint looked after him affectionately. 

“Roger’s susceptible as the deuce, Gretchen,” he told 
me, “and I can see that he’s already more than half in 
love with you—don’t be too unkind to him.” 

“I’ve been too unhappy to be unkind to anyone, if I 
know it,” I replied. 


266 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


“Don’t be too kind, either,” Mint added. “That’s 
sometimes the unkindest thing one can do.” 

His lips tightened and I knew he was thinking of 
Marjorie. 

“Are you all right, Gretchen?” he asked. “I mean, do 
you—forgive me—but have you enough money? I’d hate 
to have you worried or anything and I feel like an old 
enough friend to he impertinent.” 

“Yes, I’m quite all right, Mint,” I said, braving the 
searching glance he gave me. 

“Please let me know if you ever need any help, of any 
kind. . . .” 

Roger Cameron hurried up, carrying an enormous 
tissue-wrapped bundle. 

“Chrysanthemums for you, Mint! I forgot to write a 
train letter. . . . Will these do instead?” he asked, hold¬ 
ing out the bowers. 

Mint shook his head sternly. 

“I’ll accept nothing in place of the train letter. So 
suppose we turn these over to Gretchen?” 

Roger Cameron seized Mint’s hand. 

“Oh, but you have imagination,” he cried. 

“And now,” he said to me when we were leaving the 
station, “why can’t you have dinner with me tonight? 
Mint’s gone and . . 

He looked at me pleadingly. 

Harry was out of town and would not be back until 
next day. Why shouldn’t I have dinner with Roger 
Cameron? 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


267 


“I’ll have to go home first,” I said, thinking of my 
stranded automobile, “but I’ll meet you at six-thirty.” 

“I’ll come for you,” he cried, delighted. 

“I’d better meet you at the restaurant,” I evaded him. 
“It will be better that way.” 

“Then you come to my studio and I’ll show you the 
abnormal tree, and afterwards we will go to an Italian 
place beyond reproach, and where the proprietor looks 
a medieval brigand!” 


XII 

The next afternoon when I entered Mrs. Daggett’s 
office at the suffrage headquarters, I at once became 
aware of a marked change in her manner. 

The cold grey eyes peered at me even more sharply than 
on the day before. There was no relaxing of the grim 
face. 

Inexplicably troubled by her lack of cordiality, I could 
find nothing to say beyond my eager “good afternoon.” 
I stood in front of the desk, nervously waiting for her to 
speak. 

“Ah, Miss May,” Mrs. Daggett began in a singularly 
colorless voice, “there’s been a tie-up in the work—I’m 
afraid there’s no use of our taking on more helpers just 
now.” 

“But—but,” I stammered, trying to conceal my disap¬ 
pointment. “How long do you think it will be be¬ 
fore. . . . ?” 

“It is impossible to tell,” she returned, “and under the 
circumstances. . . .” 


268 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


“I’m sorry,” I said slowly, “because I very much wanted 
a chance to help. What has caused the tie-up, do you 
think?” 

Mrs. Daggett looked just a shade embarrassed. 

“It is hard to say,” she murmured evasively. “We 
thank you for your interest, Miss May, and are very 
sorry that we can not avail ourselves of your offer to 
cooperate.” 

Her regrets had a ring of finality. 

Without a word, I turned and left the office. 

Shame and rage almost overpowered me. I was a 
pariah, but who was that self-satisfied mummy to judge 
me? 

Mrs. Daggett’s attitude of passive resistance con¬ 
vinced me that there had been no “tie-up”—that it was 
myself they objected to. 

A morbid fancy took possession of me. I, too, wore 
the scarlet letter, but branded—on my forehead—in¬ 
visible to myself, yet proclaiming me to everyone with 
whom I came in contact. 

The idea persisted with such strength that it became 
an obsession. As I reached the street, I pulled my hat 
far down over my eyes and hurried back to my apartment 
as if I had been a criminal. 

But, no. That could not be. Mrs. Daggett had been 
eager enough to have me at our first interview. Since 
then, she had found out about me from someone—in some 
way. 

I crept into the alcove and pulled the hangings together 
behind me. Here, at least, was sanctuary. 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


269 


On the walls of that office I had seen a signed photo¬ 
graph of a well-known actress who had been to some of 
Harry’s parties. It was an open secret that she had at 
least one lover. Why was she welcomed, and I shut out? 

It was cruel—unjust, I was no worse than she, I pro¬ 
tested passionately to the waving red tree-tops outside 
my windows. But they waved rhythmically on, heedless 
of my misery. Slow clouds moved majestically across the 
blue sky. The river’s quiet progress seemed to counsel 
calm! 

Bit by bit the tumult ebbed out of my heart, but not 
the soreness. 

“Nature cares nothing for morals,” something spoke 
within me. “Nature cares only for expediency—results. 
And underneath all their superficial regard for morality, 
human beings are much like nature. No one is really 
concerned about the number of lovers a woman has, so 
long as she makes her own way. That is why Anice 
Thompson’s private life is condoned, while yours is not. 
Your lover is your living—hers is an indulgence. If you 
were a successful actress or writer or artist or business 
woman, the world would forgive you your Harrys, pro¬ 
vided you exercised a reasonable amount of good taste 
and discretion. If a man is to support you, then you 
must observe the rules of the game or be counted out. 
And it is not men who are the first to condemn you. It 
is women. You’ve cheated—you’ve turned traitor to the 
cause—you’re a scab! Not morality, but economics is 
the determining factor, Gretchen. . . . No use to rail. 
It is life.” 


270 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


“Then life is very hard,” I cried. 
There was no answer. 


xni 

Harry was coming for dinner. 

I scrubbed my face with soap. I rubbed a fragrant 
cream into its skin. I dusted it with soft white powder. 

There was no sign of a scarlet letter on my brow, but 
I seemed to feel it burning there—burning deep and red 
and ineradicable. 

I bound my hair in thick, flat strands round and round 
my head, low on my forehead. 

“Tell me, Harry,” I asked feverishly when he came, “do 
you think people in the streets can look at me and tell 
that I’m a bad woman?” 

“Ye Gods, what a question,” he roared. “Yes, darling, 
the cloven hoof is visible to everyone, you exhale a faint, 
but unmistakable odor of brimstone, and even the tallest 
hats are not high enough to quite conceal your horns!” 

I burst into tears. 

“Gretchen—tell me who’s been saying things to you,” 
he cried angrily, gathering me into his arms as if I had 
been a child. 

Between sobs I told him the story of my experience 
with Mrs. Daggett. 

“Damned old cat,” Harry exploded when I had 
finished. 

“Someone’s told her about me, I know they have,” I 
wept. 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


271 


“Eliza Greyfield’s a bug on suffrage—she’s some sort of 
officer or something,” he said reflectively, after a time, 
“but I hate to think that she’d. . . .” 

“That skinny, nosing woman who was here the night 
Miss Montrose came,” I cried. “It’s her work, Harry. 
I’d stake my soul on it. Oh, how can people be so cruel! 
How can they ? I’ve never done anything to hurt her.” 

“Now don’t you think about it any more,” Harry 
begged with his characteristic desire to have everyone 
happy. “We can get around Mrs. Greyfield in more ways 
than one, dear. . . 

“There’s no use now,” I said dispiritedly, “the damage 
has been done.” 

“Well, we can at least fix it so that no more old hens 
can talk about you,” he insisted. 

“How?” 

“How? Simplest thing in the world! We can get 
married.” 

I looked at Harry incredulously. Somehow, the 
thought of marrying him had never entered my mind. 

“You’ve been mighty sweet to me, Gretchen,” he went 
on. “For over two years I’ve been happier with you than 
I ever was before in my life. I love you, and there’s no 
one else I care two cents about. I’m getting old, too— 
forty-three next birthday—and I’ve got to the point 
where I’m thinking of children. I’d like us to be married 
and have children, Gretchen,” he ended, a little abashed, 
a little wistful. 

I realized that I was confronted with the necessity for 


272 WINDOWS FACING WEST 

making what was perhaps the most important decision in 
my life. 

XIV 

My husband had not wanted children and now my lover 
was asking me to marry him so that we could have chil¬ 
dren! Why couldn’t things be more logically arranged? 
Everything in the world was topsy-turvy, everyone was 
at cross purposes. 

I was almost twenty-five years old. It is the age when 
women begin to realize that their allotted time is nearly 
over, that their stock in trade is decreasing in value every 
day. At father’s store the organdies and voiles had been 
reduced in July from a dollar to seventy-five cents. I 
felt much like a bolt of summer fabric with fall coming 
on. Did I want to be reduced? Marriage with Harry 
would be a safe removal from the shelves. I would have 
found a purchaser before I had become shopworn and 
out of season. 

Children—I had never thought very seriously about 
them. There had never been a need for me to decide 
whether I wanted them or not until now. I rather thought 
I did not. They invaded one’s individuality so ruthlessly. 
They clung so close. They were sops to make one forget. 
The forgetting might be sweet, but it was forgetting none 
the less. Then, had I the right? I on whose brow that 
flaming letter burned. I who was a pariah—a run-away 
w if e — a man’s mistress. I who was compounded of Her¬ 
man and Agatha May and a third element which was 
neither, but perhaps more damning than both. Did I 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 273 

want children to partake of my shame and that doubtful 
inheritance? 

There was yet another factor, so intangible, yet, so 
powerful. If Harry had asked me to marry him two days 
before, I think I should have agreed. If I had left Mrs. 
Daggett’s office three minutes earlier or later, I should 
never have met Mint Collins, nor felt the disturbing in¬ 
fluence of Roger Cameron. I was not in love with him— 
yet. But the vision of love which I had been granted so 
far exceeded anything I had ever known that it made 
substitutes, however advantageous from a worldly point 
of view, impossible. 

XV 

Harry was looking at me expectantly. 

“I’m sorry—and unutterably grateful,” I told him, 
“but I can’t—I really can’t—marry you, Harry.” 

“Oh, Gretchen,” he exclaimed, “why won’t you? You 
can get a divorce.” 

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that I was 
divorced but I hesitated. What was the use? It would 
only make explanations harder. 

“I can’t dear. It wouldn’t be right—I can’t,” was my 
only reply. 

“Is it because of the way your husband acted,” he 
asked. “I’m not that sort, you ought to know it, dear.” 

“No, it isn’t that, Harry. It’s—it’s—just impossible!” 

“Would it be worse than having the Greyfields always 
armed against you,” he asked gently. 

“Let them say what they like,” I cried in desperation. 


274 WINDOWS FACING WEST 

“I can’t help it. I do what I must. But I will be myself 
in spite of everything!” 

XVI 

Roger Cameron and I visited many strange places in 
New York and many familiar places which took on a 
new and picturesque significance under the spell of his 
unabated wonder at life and all things in the world. 

We ate chow-mein and ethereal rice cakes under the 
swinging lanterns in Chinatown. We reinhabited the 
stately old mansions on the outskirts of the Battery with 
gallant, swashing men and lovely ladies. He painted my 
portrait in the studio under the abnormal tree. We 
drank execrable coffee in Fourth Street Bohemian restau 
rants at fifty cents the cup. We spent an evening on the 
Merry-go-rounds and Scenic Railroads at Coney Island, 
where Roger insisted on having our photographs taken m 
an accommodating shop where one could pose in an auto¬ 
mobile, airplane, or rowboat without extra charge. We 
dined in Turkish restaurants with Armenian names where 
the fat patrons infuriated Roger by staring persistently 
at me out of their sleepy eyes. 

He bought me violets from the flower vendors and pre¬ 
sented them with Spanish verses, the words of which I 
did not understand—but Roger’s tone would have been 
intelligible in Patagonian. 

We rode up Fifth Avenue in a hansom cab. 

We made an excursion to the Bronx Zoo and stayed in 
the cat houses for hours. There was some affinity be- 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


275 


tween my tawny-eyed companion and the great beasts. 
He never tired of them. I liked the cubs. 

We oh, we did a great many things. But Roger never 
came to my apartment. He knew, of course, my telephone 
number, but I had never given him my address. When he 
begged to be allowed to come to see me, I always put 
him off with the excuse that I had no place to receive 
callers. 

Subterfuge was very easy. He had the unquestioning 
acceptance of a child. I do not think he ever wondered 
how I lived. If he did, I suppose he explained things by 
an inheritance from some parent or aunt. 

I sometimes think that the cruellest thing I ever did 
was the deception I practiced on Roger. 

But I so wanted my hour out of life. I had never 
really played. There was Jake, but then I had no time 
to be joyous and carefree as I was now. The drudgery 
at home and in the store drained me so dry that there 
was little spirit left for gaiety. 

After Mrs. Daggett’s rebuff, my sensitiveness did not 
permit me to try to find something to do. What could I 
do? True, I could have left Harry and worked in a 
store or an office, but then my sacrifices would all have 
been in vain. I should be back at the beginning again. 
And I had not the courage to try. Someone might know 
me or know someone who did. I was beautiful, and my 
beauty was of an unusual type. I have never passed 
unnoticed. 

Perhaps I might have faced these considerations, but 
for another: I had grown soft. My life, first with DuVal 


276 WINDOWS FACING WEST 

and then with Harry, had undoubtedly developed me in 
many ways. But luxury had got in its insidious work. 
Go back to a hall bedroom and a dairy lunch existence? 
I could not. Nor do I think many people in my position 
would have acted differently. If I had had any convic¬ 
tion of sinfulness in my present life—but I had none 
really. The world said I was shameful. At times, in 
moments of depression, I agreed with the world, but at 
heart I felt no qualms about my mode of life. I did not ex¬ 
pect to burn eternally because I had left DuVal and come 
to Harry. Nor did I believe that I could be saved by 
returning to a life that irked my spirit intolerably and 
broke my body. 

The whole matter was social—economic and that 
would not be bettered by reformation on my part. 

My salvation, if there was to be salvation, would be 
wrung out of my own soul in bloody sweat. I could save 
myself, not by facing about in accordance with the world’s 
ideas, but by facing myself, knowing myself, and then, 
doing what I must. 

But that could come later. Now was for Roger. 

Harry was out of town for days at a time. When he 
was in town, he never came to my apartment before dinner. 

Harry had changed a little since his proposal. He was 
gentler with me—generous as always, but preoccupied, 
less ardent. I suppose he was thinking of children. 

I told myself that I was doing Harry no injustice in 
seeing Roger. There was never so much as a kiss between 
us. Roger would not marry me, if he knew the truth. 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


m 

And, feeling as I did, I would not have permitted any 
other relationship. 

I only wanted to see him, to be with him, to let myself 
pretend for a while that I was eighteen and he my 
first beau, and that life was still a closed book with a blue 
and gold cover. 

It was senseless, and perhaps unkind, but I do not 
regret it. 

Roger would forget. Life to him was still an engross¬ 
ing, and heroic romance. 

Perhaps the hardest thing I had to face during the 
three months of his stay was the fact that he would forget, 
and that he could never understand. 

A painted woman on a street corner had looked at him 
from under her big lace hat one night when we were 
together. 

Roger had shuddered, ever so slightly. 

“That,” he said, “is the most terrible crime of all. 
Murder and robbery I can understand, but not how people 
can sell love for money.” 

It seemed as if an icy hand had been laid on my heart. 
I did not answer him, nor could I enter into his hilarious 
mood during the rest of the evening. 

What would he think of me! 


XVII 


“I’m going home next week,” Roger said suddenly one 
afternoon. We were having tea at the Brevoort^ 

For an instant I heard the playing of the orchestra 


278 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


very distinctly. A woman at the next table laughed. 
Motors rushed by outside. People chattered. I was quite 
numb and yet my senses registered the minutest impres¬ 
sions. It was strange. 

He reached across the table and laid his hand in mine. 

“Do you care so much, Gretchen?” he asked won- 
deringly. 

“I shall miss you frightfully,” I admitted, trying to 
make the tone sound commonplace. 

“My orange groves and blue sky will not be denied 
any longer,” he said. “I’ve already stayed a month more 
than I intended. . . . My house, Gretchen, is white with 
crimson roses clambering over it. There is a patio with 
a little fountain in the center—and upstairs a big, glass- 
roofed studio where I work. ... It is warm out there, 
always, and the nights are very long and very fragrant. 
Everything is bigger, more luxuriant, than here—even 
the stars are huge and burning, not like eastern stars— 
and geraniums grow miles into the air so that their tops 
are sometimes hidden by the clouds. . . . Would you like 
that, Gretchen?” 

“It sounds most—attractive,” I murmured feebly. 
“But now I must go home.” 

“Let me come with you, Gretchen, please. You’ve never 
let me come to your home. I’m sure that even a hall bed¬ 
room that you lived in would be charming—please!” 

“I can’t,” I cried nervously. “It would spoil 
everything.” 

“Silly,” he scoffed. “I’m coming anyway—not this 
afternoon, but tonight after dinner. I want to see you.” 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


279 


“You can’t,” I cried. “Besides, you don’t know where 
I live!” 

“Oh, don’t I! Much you know about it. I’ve known 
ever since this morning!” 

“How,” I began, panic-stricken. 

“I looked through the telephone book,” Roger answered 
my unspoken question. “Oh, Gretchen, it took so long— 
each one of the six million in this town has three tele¬ 
phones ! I’ve been a week finding out. And now I won’t 
be put off any longer. You can expect me at The 
Alhambra Apartments at eight-thirty!” 

“I shan’t be there—I’m going away at six o’clock.” 

“You’re afraid,” he teased me, “you’re running away!” 

“No. I’m not. Please don’t come, Roger,” I pleaded. 

“But if you’re not going to be there, why should you 
care ?” 

“I shan’t be there—you’ll only be wasting your time.” 

“That’s nothing. I’m coming!” 

Through my brain like a dirge ran the two words: The 
end. 

Why not let him come? Bet him find out. It was the 
only way—and it was inevitable. Perhaps it was the 
easier way, easier than telling him—easier for both of us. 

XVIII 

There was a long peal at the bell. 

I drew the covers about me, stuffed the bedspread into 
my mouth to stifle the agonized scream that it seemed 
must come. 


280 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


Ah, this was hard—harder than death. It was life. 

I heard Wong tonelessly repeating my instruction. 
“Miss May is out, but Mr. Baldwin will be in in a few 
moments. Would you care to wait?’* 

The short silence was more expressive than any words. 
The door to the living room closed softly. There was 
a sound of stumbling footsteps going down the hall. 
Then all was quiet. 


WHEREFORE 


I 

Two years have passed since that night. Two years 
that might have been a day so far as any change in my 
life is concerned. 

Spring follows Winter and is succeeded by Summer and 
Autumn—that much I can tell by the trees. But I have 
no seasons. 

After that night I was ill, for the first time in my life. 
For weeks I lay in the big bedroom not caring what hap¬ 
pened. At first there were whole days when I tossed 
stormily about and babbled deliriously of Jake and 
Marjorie and Roger—especially of Roger. The trained 
nurse told me that. Then it was only Wong who could 
quiet me by talking in a low, sing-song voice—in Chinese. 

I wonder if I knew what he said. Sometimes it seems 
to me that we held long conversations in which I asked 
eternally, and he answered. We were very close. He 
gave me his secret. 

But I can not be sure. 

However, when the long period of coma had passed and 
I could once more resume my life in the alcove, I sent for 
books on Oriental philosophy and religion and found that 
I already knew much of what I read. The books held 
chiefly two words for me—two words that seemed to have 

281 


282 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


been blended in Wong’s long, soothing discourses by my 
bedside—Karma and Nirvana, and the greatest of these? 
was Nirvana. 

They were very kind to me. Harry would sit for hours 
by my bed, looking at me with anxious, devoted eyes. The 
white shadow of the nurse hurried in and out of the dark¬ 
ness surrounding me. Wong was the light. 

Since then, life has gone on much as before—on the 
surface. Harry comes and goes. Wong is again the 
reserved, solicitous servant. We still give parties, though 
less often. 

In the two years my existence has been a grey thread, 
without a knot, without a single colored interval. 

The war has come and gone like a brief nightmare that 
left me untouched. 

The suffrage fight has been won to an accompaniment 
of jubilation that seems a little strange to me with my 
larger vision of freedom. Still, it is a beginning. I have 
learned patience and humility in these two years. 

I seldom go out. 

Why should I go to the theater when I have the chang¬ 
ing drama of the river and the hills to absorb me? Whiy 
should I take a drive when, without moving from the 
window seat, my spirit can roam at will on a saffron 
colored cloud or the quick wind? Why should I talk with 
people when there is always the murmuring of the trees 
for me to hear? 

Still, I have not quite attained my longed-for goal. 
Still there remains the futile wish that someone will under- 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


283 


stand. That is why I have gone on writing. My journal 
is for Marjorie. She will know. 

It has seemed to me that there is a hushed regard en¬ 
compassing me—as if I were very ill. I can not break 
through the quiet. It is relentless and expectant. I am 
a pale, intruding shadow in the alive world—and yet, I 
sometimes feel that the shadow is more real than the 
actualities. 

Harry asked me again to marry him, but as if he knew 
what my answer would be. I refused, but gently—Harry 
is so good. I am sure he wants children, and I am sure 
that he will never leave me and marry another woman. 

How strange it is that whosever life I touched, I have 
marred! I have a deep sense of my having been marred 
at the outset. Perhaps that is why. 

After Roger went, I remembered how Marjorie’s re¬ 
ligion had consoled her. For a long time my mind has 
longed to yield. I have visited cathedrals and listened 
to the droning of many masses. I have prayed. I have 
thought with yearning of a convent cell. Rut there is a 
part of me that will not assent to this escape. 

For all my life has been a series of escapes. And each 
time I have eluded one problem to meet another and a 
greater one. Now I have a longing to face one problem 
squarely. 

The sun is sinking in a crimson blaze. How many sun¬ 
downs have I watched, hopefully—despairingly—apa¬ 
thetically—from my windows! But never one quite like 
this one. It is a glorious finale to the day. It is a 
flourish of trumpets to the new king, Night. 


284 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


It is the West, ushering out the old with dignity 
ushering in the new with hope. The old is dead. . . . 
The new will also die. 

Redder than a cardinal’s cap, redder than the blood of 
martyrs, the sun goes down. 

II 

Last night I dreamed a dream. 

On the summit of a high, barren mountain there sat 
a veiled and shrouded figure with bowed head. And the 
feet of the figure were bound and its hands were shackled. 
At the foot of the mountain were thousands of women, 
seen like shadows through the thick fog—women toiling 
at looms, women hoeing in fields, women bent over type¬ 
writers, women nursing the sick, women in childbirth, 
starving women in villages devastated by war, women 
watching their dead. And from the mouths of these 
countless women there issued a faint wailing that gath¬ 
ered volume as it ascended—such a sound as is made by 
the sea or the wind—monotonous, changeless, persistent. 

As the noise of the wailing reached the shrouded figure, 
it seemed to weep. 

Then it rose and began struggling to loosen its 
shackles, threshing about so mightily that the whole 
mountain trembled and even the earth below. And as it 
struggled, it gave vent to loud, furious cries which were 
heard in the valley beneath. 

And for a moment the women ceased their wailing and 
looked nervously at one another. 



WINDOWS FACING WEST 


285 


Still the shrouded figure wrestled with its bonds. And, 
after a time, its hands came free. Bending swiftly, it 
untied the cords about its ankles, unwound the shroud 
and veil and, casting them scornfully aside, emerged a 
woman. 

The woman was slender and strongly made and the 
shining splendor of her nude body blinded the eyes. 

In her right hand, she clasped a star; and in her left, 
the crescent moon. On her forehead was a chaplet of 
orioles. At her feet, flowed seven great rivers. 

She smiled, and the fog in the valley began to fade. 

Then the woman spoke, and at the sound of her voice 
the great looms ceased their whirring, the typewriters 
and the hoes became idle and the cries of travail hushed 
themselves, while all the women gazed upwards at the figure 
on the mountain. 

“Oh, women everywhere, my sisters,” cried the voice, 
“in factory, schoolroom, field, or office, or kitchen, hear 
my message to you and know that your salvation lies in 
yourselves. Tear aside the fogs of prejudice and class 
distinctions—abandon your jealousies—your pettiness 
your cruelty to one another. Become conscious! Train 
your daughters to be women first and wives afterward. It 
is through work that women will ascend to their pre¬ 
destined place. Until each girl child is taught that she 
must work constructively to earn a right to live until 
she learns that her work is more important than any¬ 
thing else—just so long will women toil at meaningless 
tasks, so long will they suffer needlessly, so long will 
they be oppressed. Glorious creators, womb of gods and 


286 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


men, come out of your bondage! Be conscious of your 
destiny—and work!” 

When she began, a gleam of hope had flickered in the 
blank or tortured faces upraised to her. When she had 
finished, there was silence for a short while, and then 
the women laughed mockingly and resumed their drudgery, 
their childbearing, their mourning for the dead. 

Their laughter was sadder than their wailing. 

As its last jeering echoes faded, a creature came 
running across the mountain. Its body was like that of 
an alligator, its head was the head of a jackal, but it 
had human hands. 

The creature seized the bright woman, bound her wrists 
and ankles and replaced the veil and the shroud. Then 
it, too, laughed and ran away. 

The seven great rivers vanished. Again, fog obscured 
the valley and the women. 

The bowed figure sat sorrowing on the barren mountain 
top. 

When I awoke I was frightened, because I did not 
understand the dream. But I was very sad. 

Ill 

The mist floats beneath my windows in golden, sun- 
touched waves, hiding the tree-tops. 

It is very early. 

I raise the windows and the alcove is invaded by slender 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


287 


wraiths that touch me with cool fingers, cling and 
disappear. 

A strange exaltation possesses me. For I have not 
yielded. 

I have done much that was wrong, much that was cow¬ 
ardly, but I have been relentlessly myself through every¬ 
thing. I have not grovelled before God. I have not 
begged for mercy. 

The last great temptation is over. The lure of incense 
and a nun’s cell and prayer has departed. 

Women will come after me to whom may be granted life 
and victory, but to me, their sister, who was born too 
soon, there can be nothing but escape. And out of many 
escapes, I choose the only final one. 

I choose the open, rather than the closed window. 

“To plunge into moonlit water as the most romantic 
way. . . .” Ah, but mist gilded with the young morning 
sun is better even than that! 

Now Harry can marry and have children. Now Wong 
can live in Canton in as great state as his tea merchant 
father. Wong is to have my money. I like to think of 
the little man in silk-embroidered jackets. I like to think 
that he will remember me. Now my soul will return to 
the source—the drop to the ocean. 

There is good in everything. Everything has a mean¬ 
ing. I would not change a single incident in my life. 
They have all been straw, sometimes good, sometimes bad 
straw, of which I have made brick. 

Now! The West on which my windows face is a sunlit 


288 


WINDOWS FACING WEST 


sea of mist; and towards that I go on the pathway of the 
dawn. 

Somewhere I think that I shall smile at little Wong’s 
consternation when he parts the green hangings. Again 
I shall have left the alcove before he could summon me. 







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